


A Good Feeling

by dentalfloss



Category: Avengers Assemble (Cartoon), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Universe - Fandom, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abduction, Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers Tower, Avengers are all Avengers, BAMF Clint Barton, Blood and Violence, Child Abduction, Coffee, Coma patients, Competence, Explicit Language, Genius Clint, Homelessness, Implied Child Abuse, Injury, Ronin - Freeform, Subterfuge, Tony Stark and good intentions, Torture, Trust Issues, Younger Clint Barton, abaondoment, brief discussion of child murder, care and some comfort, coffee sprinkled with some more issues, custodial profession, forging friendship, good feelings, money issues, non movie compliant but still same characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 81,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25295155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dentalfloss/pseuds/dentalfloss
Summary: “You work for SHIELD” Barton spat the agencies title at Coulson as though it were the nastiest cuss he knew.  “We have nothing more to talk about.” Which was all good and fine, except-“I have some things to discuss with you, actually,” Tony said and Clint’s bruised and swollen gaze turned towards him.  “Many things.  Nice things,” he tagged on when Clint’s gaze narrowed darkly.  The kid might be passing out in slow motion before them but Tony was well aware he was still a threat and he made no move to approach.  “Let me help,” he insisted anyway.Or: the one where Clint may be a pretty formidable assassin for hire, but he was broke and his brother needed help he couldn’t afford so he needed a legitimate job for a little while.  How fortunate Stark Tower was hiring.
Comments: 389
Kudos: 907
Collections: Excellent Clint Barton centric fiction





	1. Cosmic Joke

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone. Confession time. I have had the first 130ish pages completed since 2017, and finally picked it back up in January. Big Thank you to Teeelsie who made me work extra hard to fix all the grammar things!!! Your help is massively appreciated by me and everyone else (who fortunately did not suffer reading this before the edits.)
> 
> Warning: this story paints some dark pictures of care facilities that are less affluent than others. There is no intention to insult or belittle, I just needed it for plot. While I have actually been in some very unfortunate facilities like these I do not have great experience with them and am one hundred percent respectful to the nurses, workers and rundown staff that keep these places and patients afloat despite the hours and hardships.
> 
> Notes: I don't know why I wanted to write this story, but I did and I enjoyed it (except for when I lost 22 pages of amazing ending and cried a little before ignoring it for another four months), so that's something. Please note the Avengers are slow to appear, but fear not they are in this work!
> 
> Enjoy.

His life might not be a cosmic joke, but it sure as fuck felt like one.

Clint Barton was not enamoured with the universe right now, though if honesty were to prevail he hadn’t much cared for the universe’s game plan since he’d been old enough to understand the concept. At least he didn’t care for the plan where he was concerned, and it was pissing him off.

Because being pissed off was always better, and easier, than letting life overwhelm him.

He stood in the corner of room twenty-four in the long-term care facility, silent, still, and watching. His chest felt like a heavy hot rock of tension, and it kept getting heavier the longer he remained.

He’d been looking for his brother on and off for a few years now, between jobs and when he wasn’t too banged up. It was slightly more complicated than it should be as he hadn’t wanted his personal connection to be obvious, but he finally get a bead on him. What Clint hadn’t been expecting, after their eight years of complete radio silence, was to find his big brother laid up in a long-term care ward for comatose patients. He was finding it difficult to move through the room and go to the curtained off area at the far end where Barney was supposed to be lying, so Clint had parked it in the corner, and watched. Only three curtains at the far end of the room were pulled closed for privacy, and one only halfway. There was no method or reasoning he could see for why some people were given visual privacy and others weren’t.

His hands were shaking. He couldn’t remember the las time his hands had shaken like this.

This place was a goddamn dump. Jesus. He’d heard about facilities like this from the troop, back when he’d still been a part of Carson’s Carnival. One of the aerialists had a bad fall without the net, but their body didn’t die, and as no one could afford decent care she’d been taken to a place like this, where her body would be kept alive with minimal effort. The nursing staff themselves seemed to be nearly comatose as they were worked off their feet to keep the place functioning with limited resources.

Some of the privacy curtains had tears in them that had been stapled back together as a quick fix. The staff brought in their own personal supply of latex gloves because they never knew when they’d run out of the ones provided. He could smell the stink of waste and stagnant bodies as some people needed to be cleaned but had to wait until someone had the time.

He bet this place didn’t have daily physio for the comatose patients. He bet their muscles were atrophying through complete misuse and wouldn’t be surprised if they were only properly bathed once a week. He felt sick. He’d seen places like this, on his first trip to Bangledesh, when he’d crashed through it to escape the bounty hunters after him for killing their score before they did. There had been more flies there, but other than that there wasn’t a big difference.

Holy fuck this place. There were twelve people in this room that was probably only designed for six. The beds were close enough together that the nurses had to twist sideways and shuffle to see their charge.

He took a breath, and watched the tired nurse that had been shuffling from curtain to curtain wander out of the room, too tired or having a shit-sense of situational awareness, to notice him. It was nearing midnight on a Thursday, but this felt like dirty icing on a crap-cake, because these people, his brother, were in here, and the people charged with keeping him safe didn’t notice a stranger standing in a black outfit against a white wall in the corner of the room.

He took a breath and tried not to choke on the smell, because he’d once fallen into a half-decayed body during one of New Orleans hotter days, which had been one of his more disgusting experiences, and he hadn’t been overwhelmed by it. This smell though, it was somehow worse, and it wasn’t even that potent. The nurse was gone though, and he couldn’t keep stalling, because it wouldn’t help. 

He squared his shoulders, marched across the room and slipped inside the curtain. A moment later he stepped back out and moved behind the only other fully closed curtain in this place, because the older woman behind curtain number one had not been his target. This place seemed to have the bed assignments and patients mixed up on the computer system, and he’d have to change that before he left, because fuck if that wouldn’t potentially kill one of them.

He had to press the front of his thighs against the raised bed in order to not make the curtain bulge obviously around him, and then he was there.

He was there.

Clint took a long, silent and controlled breath, like he was drawing back on his bow and living in that moment of complete focus before the release. His brother looked like shit. He hadn’t really known what to expect, but he hadn’t quite expected this. 

Clint hadn’t seen Barney since he was thirteen years old, but at eighteen Barney had been tall, broad and strong. It was all the heavy work of life as a roustabout, along with training with the tumblers, and even Jaques for a time. This gaunt, pale man with far too much untrimmed hair on his chin and sunken bruises under his eyes…this wasn’t his brother. He’d been in a coma for nearly six months, and Clint didn’t have a lot of experience with hospitals, outside of avoiding them unless he was on a job of some sort, but he didn’t think Barney should look this rough so soon.

“Jesus Barney,” Clint breathed out softly, barely audible even in the mostly silent room. “You’re making it really hard to hate you right now.”

Because Clint wasn’t Barney’s biggest fan. It was kind of hard to like a guy that left you at the mercy of the Swordsman when you were thirteen, and fucked off to greener pastures without ever bothering to look back. No, Clint had been furious for a long time, and it had fuelled his search for Barney all these years. He’d expected a much more violent, and loud reunion.

Seeing him like this though… “fuck.” He cursed. Then he turned and left, walking right past the nurses station, gaining a couple of looks but no questions asked about who he was or how he’d gotten in in the first place. He’d climbed up the side of the building and slipped in through the roof access, easy peasy.

He glared at the night guard behind the front desk so fiercely the guy didn’t even question unlocking the door from the button by his seat and Clint practically stumbled through into the cool night air. He stormed off, not caring about the direction he was headed in, because if he walked with the anger he had thrumming through him right now he would be out of this fucking city and out of the State by morning.

He stalked into the park, and passed purposely close to what looked like a group of men who would be glad to start trouble. They took him in, and dispersed with a strut that said they weren’t running away, but they were clearly running away. Damn. He must have his murder face on, and he’d been told when he stalked in a certain way there was no mistaking his intent to fuck shit up. He spun around and stormed back out to the poorly lit sidewalk and paced back and forth for a bit. A patrol car drove by slowly, but didn’t stop.

He should leave. He could leave here and know that Barney was getting his just desserts for abandoning him, for leaving him behind with fucking Jacques Duquense and Chisholm. Clint should abandon him like brothers do, because Barney was not his responsibility. Clint was having enough trouble keeping himself alive, let alone Barney. Barney, who was alone, unable to defend himself in a hole in the wall care facility that could pull the plug any minute in order to save some money for new equipment or whatever.

Would that be so bad? There’d been a year there, between Barney leaving the military and joining SHIELD that he’d been classified as dead, and Clint had mostly believed it. If he walked away now this would just be like that time. Either way, it was Barney’s problem, and he’d made it clear how little he cared for Clint’s well being.

Right. Good. Screw Barney anyway. Clint owed him exactly nothing.

Clint turned his back on the facility and walked away.

He made it about fifty steps before he twisted around sharply and stormed back. He glared at the security guard through the front door until he buzzed him in. This place.

“If you keep letting unauthorized strangers into this building because they glare at you I am going to come back here and rip your hand off seeing as you’re clearly not using it for anything intelligent. Understood?”

The guard nodded rapidly, and then frowned.

“Who are you?”

“Healthcare auditor, and so far the security portion of this inspection is falling short.”

“Yes sir, understood sir,” the guys said, all suspicion gone. Clint was already walking away, back up to the second floor so he could change the bed assignments to make sure Barney wasn’t going to accidentally be shot up with the wrong medication because someone was too exhausted to read the name or gender on the chart properly.

He walked behind the nursing station, that no one was watching, and made the corrections, then printed a copy of everything they had on Barney before he went back to his brothers room. He glared at the asshole for another minute and then retreated through the rooms window.

The first thing Clint needed to do was figure out how the hell Barney had ended up here. Then he’d figure out how to get him to a better facility, because this place wasn’t going to fly.

cCc

It turned out Barney never made it past being a fresh recruit in SHIELD, of all places. A month into his probationary field status he was hit from behind by some kind of concussive canon and thrown off a one story roof. Initially he’d had a few broken ribs and a busted leg which all healed in about two months. The head injury, either from the fall or the blast, where what put him into the coma he wasn’t waking up from. As far as the doctors whom had looked at his case could determine his brain had healed and wasn’t showing signs of continuing trauma, so there was no telling whether or not he’d ever wake up.

He’d been in West Virginia when he’d been injured, and he’d been kept in the State as his next of kin was listed ‘whereabouts unknown’ and apparently Barney had no one he trusted to look in on him or out for him.

Well, at least they had something in common after all these years a part.

Barney’s supposed team at the time had been on ground cover duty, and nobody noticed the enemy slip off and head to the roof he’d been stationed on alone. He’d shot Barney in the back.

Barney should have been paying better attention, like he’d hammered into Clint when he was six. The idiot. But shit happened.

Armed with this information Clint decided on his primary courses of action: (1) Get Barney somewhere safer. (2) Find out who the hell stuck Barney where he was, because Clint would have thought part of joining SHIELD meant a decent healthcare insurance, unless it was invalidated being a probationary agent. (3) Figure out who shot him, and take care of them. 

No problem.

cCc

Problem.

Clint hadn’t had official ID under his own name…ever.

It took a substantial amount of his limited savings to get new ones with a proper social security number and false work history to make him look like a legitimate civilian. He had eight false identities, and four passports that should still function in a pinch, but anything to pass a deep inspection? Not so much.

Apparently in order to gain proper access to Barney as his Next of Kin and power of attorney he required authentic identification. Clint couldn’t risk a fake one, even with his real name, not flying here. It would pull up way too many questions, especially if SHIELD was contacted about him. 

Clint had to travel to New York, where his source was, to get it. This worked out because it was the location of the SHIELD agent who had assigned Barney to bumfuck-city West Virginia when his home address had him listed in Washington. Clint was not supposed to know this. Clint still had a few large favours owed to him, due to painful and life threatening situations, and he was cashing them in hard for this information.

Fuck Barney anyway, he didn’t deserve Clint.

With frustration and anger stewing in his gut Clint collected his new illegitimate-legitimate ID along with the extra expensive SHIELD ID card from Iliana, his forger of choice. The SHIELD ID ate so deeply into his emergency funds that he nearly decided to walk out on Barney again. He honestly wasn’t sure if he would have made the order if Iliana had told him the cost upfront. Like a dummy he’d not bothered to check that little detail in his righteous fury over Barney’s situation, and he refused to walk out on a deal that could damage his reputation and future relations with the forger. Lesson learned. 

He let the anger simmer as he scouted his target for a few days and planned his approach. The anger festered as he lifted a generic gray suit off the rack at Macey’s. He slipped weapons in all the obvious places an agent would carry with no extras despite the itch to load up for a violent egress. Once he made it near the entrance of SHIELD’s New York office he wrestled the anger away and adopt a facade of calm, competent and uninteresting. His ID badge scanned successfully and he walked passed security with no hassle, which was just embarrassing for SHIELD, but great for him. He clipped his ID badge to the jackets breast pocket and moved like he had been in the place a hundred times. He appeared calm and bored as he rode the elevator to the eighth floor. Of the seven people that got on and off the elevator as he rode it, not a single one represented a physical threat to him.

On the eighth floor, on his way to his target, he rounded a corner and nearly barrelled right into a rather petite, dark skinned woman, who promptly dropped her coffee in surprise. Clint grabbed it out of the air on reflex.

“Nice grab,” the man beside her said, and Clint looked up to find gray-blue eyes watching him, a hint of amusement mixed in with busy disinterest. Black suit, well tailored but not obviously so, dark blue tie with fine dark gray stripes, easy posture, strong jaw, bland face. The perfect appearance of an average office worker.

Clint instantly knew there was nothing average about this man, not because of how he was acting, but because of the reactions of the people around them. They were subtle, but clearly interested in the near collision. Too interested for either the man or woman to be run of the mill agents, which meant he was a definite somebody. Somebodies were dangerous, and this man was a chameleon. Clint grew wary, which meant he was instantly looser in the shoulders, masking his readiness to fight his way out if he needed to, and he pulled up the most genuine grin he could muster. The act was designed to disarm and it was well rehearsed.

“I hate to waste good coffee,” Clint huffed a chuckle, and passed the drink back to the woman, who accepted it with a very slight smile and sharp eyes. “Hate to waste bad coffee too,” he eyed the paper Starbucks coffee cup jokingly. The mans lips quirked.

“Everyone’s a critic,” the agent rolled her eyes, and then gestured with the coffee, pointedly. “Sir?” She questioned the agent with her, but in a kind of strict herding sort of way, as she stepped around Clint. Clint was struck with the understanding that they were heading somewhere urgently. The man nodded and moved off with her, and Clint did not breathe out a sigh of relief, because that was stupid, obvious, and unprofessional, none of which he was. And because he was a freaking professional, even at twenty-two, he did not panic when the mans voice cut back to him from only a few steps away.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before, Agent?” The suit called, curiosity clear, and Clint looked back to them.

“Bailey,” he answered smoothly, because that’s what his badge said and he had nothing to hide. “First time on this floor, I have to clear up a paperwork thing.”

“Mission report?” the man pressed, completely easy.

“Health benefits,” Clint shrugged sheepishly.

“Those are important,” the man agreed. “Take the next corridor right, and it should be at the end of the hall.”

“Right,” Clint said, “thank you, sir.” He even managed to sound like he meant it.

“Agent Coulson,” the woman urged, and finally got the man to follow her before she vibrated away with mostly restrained tension.

He had no more issues finding his location. The person in charge however, apparently had a big problem with his brother, and no issues with sharing the attitude with an ‘agent’ concerned about his well-being. Barney had clearly crossed paths with this guy, and not in a good way.

“Bernard Barton specified no location for his recuperation to take place should he be injured on the job. As such he was assigned his current station with the benefits allotted to probationary agents,” he sneered the title. “It is a perfectly acceptable facility for his needs.”

“It’s a shithole,” Clint snarled no longer caring about keeping his cool in this room as the man was moments away from being strangled by him.

“Yes well, that’s not my problem.”

“You’re saying the agents,” he paused and corrected, “us agents who put our lives on the line for SHIELD rate nothing more than a dump like that one after basically dying on the job.”

“He was probationary,” the man waved him off, “and the facility is fine. Don’t worry, it’s rare for agents to end up comatose like Barton did, and if you did SHIELD will take care of you.” He sounded bored now, and Clint was livid.

“Do you hear what you’re saying?” He asked through pressed teeth.

“Is there anything else you need, Agent Bailey? I’m a busy man.”

“And if I decide to report this treatment of your probationary agent up the chain?” He demanded, frustration and anger pushing through his veins. The man looked up from his paper work with a bored expression.

“Go ahead,” he said easily, which told Clint that he doubted anything more would be done.

There were so many tools in this room Clint could use to kill the guy in three seconds flat, and none of those were the weapons he’d brought in with him. He resisted though, because he didn’t need the hassle. If he was going to end this guy, it would be more subtle and non-traceable.

He got up and left without a word.

In the hallway he adopted the same pleasant mask he’d worn all the way up here, and he used it all the way out as well.

Fuck SHIELD. He’d known they were bad news when they first started trying to find him for apparent ‘recruitment’ reasons. If this was how they treated their people than he wanted nothing to do with the assholes.

He lifted three guns and four wallets on his exit out of spite. Plus, it was always good to have free weapons and untraceable cash.

Assholes.

cCc

Turns out facilities that took care of coma patients were expensive as hell. Clint discovered this as he investigated the greater New York City area. 

Expensive and untrusting.

Clint learned that, as power of attorney, he could request a transfer to a different facility for his brother, however; SHIELD wasn’t going to pay more than they already were, which was nowhere near enough. Clint needed to fork out a lot more money, but the facilities also frowned on accepting clients who didn’t have a stable, traceable, income. Clint didn’t have enough money from his mercenary and bodyguard jobs to pay a decent, but less rule abiding, facility with said disreputable funds, as they cost at least twice as much as the officially legit places. Clint was good at what he did, very, very good, but his job had a lot of overhead and with SHIELD actively searching for his Ronin alias, he wasn’t getting as many jobs offers as he needed. It also cost money to avoid them.

Fuck SHIELD. Seriously.

So that left him needing to get a job that could be traced for a credit check and guaranteed a certain amount of money in the bank for Barney’s ‘rent.’

Clint hadn’t given too much thought to this when he had his official identity created, because he’d never had to think about this sort of thing before. Breaking and entering? No problem. Body-guarding? Like it was hard to spot assassins or would be kidnappers. He did that in his sleep. Assassinations? He did them occasionally, but only for very select targets, which built him a reputation of being a tough hire, but whatever. International border crossings? A joke for him really. But his new official identity gave him a GED, and logged him as a gas station attendant these last few years with no apparent ambition for anything else. Screw Ileana anyway, she should have known to give him at least a passive image of aspiration on paper. She must still be pissed that he’d never called her after that one time he’d stayed over, but she’d known the score. She was also an asshole. A beautiful, intelligent, passive-aggressive asshole.

Clint needed a legitimate job, for a legitimate paper trail to get his brother into a legitimate facility.

Changed back into his much more comfortable ripped jeans and converse sneakers, he walked through New York city with his hands stuffed in his leather jacket pockets and tried to think about what place would hire him with his resume. He was focused on his surroundings in that half-alert way he always was when a man, texting on a too large phone with far too much fervour, stepped out in front of traffic beside him. It was second nature to take the few big steps needed, wrap him bodily around the waist, pick him up and spin him out of the path of an oncoming taxi. The taxi blared its horn at them angrily as it sped on by. Clint put the guy back on his feet, now safely on the sidewalk, and turned to continue on his way.

It was barely twenty seconds later when the guy caught up to him, grey-faced and obviously grateful as he thrust his hand at Clint while the rest of the population flowed around them with practiced irritation.

“Thank you,” the guy was a bit breathless, no doubt still wrapping his head around what just happened, “for saving my life.”

“No problem,” Clint shook his hand perfunctorily, and moved to continue on his way again.

“Sincerely, that was…that was good. Really good, I have a wife and two children and I was so busy trying to get back to work I wasn’t paying attention-”

“It’s fine,” Clint cut him off, unaccustomed to this level of appreciation. He was usually only thanked this much when he decided against killing someone while right in front of them…but he supposed the situation was sort of similar, in a round about way. “Just, keep your eyes up and you’ll be fine,” he shrugged and made to go on his way.

“Seriously, I just-” the guy shook his head, smoothly managing to block Clint’s escape route without seeming to realize he was doing so. He was almost a foot taller than Clint, which made him a veritable giant. “If there’s anything I can do to thank you, anything at all? Because I can not believe I just did that, and you were nearly run over for me.” There was no nearly about it. Clint probably wouldn’t have reacted if he hadn’t had the time, and Clint was an expert at timing. He shrugged in response, though, because he needed to figure things out and this guy was eating into his valuable time.

“Unless you’re looking to hire a guy with a crap resume and excellent work ethic, there’s not much you can do. Thanks though,” Clint shrugged; not bothering with a smile because he just didn’t have the energy. He finally managed to slip around him, and made an entire four steps before he heard:

“Do you know anything about custodial work?”

He stopped and eyed the guy, who seemed more confident now.

“Yes,” he said, because cleaning up for a circus and cleaning up for a building couldn’t be that different.

“Great, because it turns out I need a new full time custodian. The boss is fair, which means the pay is better than competitive, and benefits kick in after three months. Guaranteed thirty-eight hours a week if you stick it out, more if you want.”

Clint thought about this, for about three seconds, because at the very least it was a foot in the door somewhere, and the sooner the better.

“Where’s it for?” he asked, and the guy looked self-satisfied, like he was both smug and happy to have acquired a complete stranger to work for his company on the single point of his saving his life. He hadn’t even asked for Clint’s name yet.

“You’re standing in front of it,” he said, and Clint turned to look across the road where the guy was gesturing. He looked up and up and up at the tower of modern architecture, steel, and specialized glass that was as close to bullet proof as you could get on the market at the moment. He was standing before Stark Tower, home of New York’s Stark Industries branch, one of the homes of the infamous Tony Stark, and publicly known home of the Avengers, and Natasha Romanov.

Well, fuck him.

“Sure, I’ll take it,” he said, and the guy grinned.

“Excellent! I’m Walter Reed,” he stuck his slightly sweaty palm out to Clint and Clint shrugged internally and shook it again.

“Clint Barton,” he said.

He did not want this job. Hell no. But Stark had a reputation for treating his people well and would probably pay better than any other entry-level gig he could officially get. Clint knew this, because he’d been hired the year before to remove Stark from this plane of existence, and he had therefore done his homework. Aside from Stark not being someone Clint thought deserved killing, he’d also been Ironman for about a year at that point and had formed the Avengers not long before the contract on him went out. Clint had been overseas for a while and his potential client had thought he’d just jump at any old job that would pull him back to the States. Joke was on him, because Clint was not a schmuck. He had also taken affront to their insistence he do what they demanded and he shut down the contract altogether. 

Point being, this job could work the way he needed it too, and Clint could supplement the income with side-jobs. He just had to avoid…everybody.

“Well, Mr. Barton, welcome to Stark Industries.”


	2. Through the Door

Walter Reed, Clint realized pretty quickly, might be a bit of a moron when it came to spatial awareness, but he was subtly a master negotiator when he wanted to be. Whether Reed knew this about himself or not, was still undetermined.

He busked Clint into Stark Tower right after getting Clint’s verbal agreement on the job, talking about his wife and kids the entire time as he herded Clint past security (really good security, Clint noted, but he’d still be able to get past it in a pinch), into an elevator, and up to the third floor. The third floor was apparently where the offices of all the department managers were located, or at least the ones that didn’t need to be on area-specific floors for direct management.

“Ah, Mr. Long,” Walter greeted the moment he stepped into a large room, lined with shelves stuffed with the tools of the custodial trade. Clint scanned the space, or what he could see of it, with a quick glance and settled his attention on the man sitting at the desk by the door. Slavic descent, graying hair, around fifty, fit but starting to round in the middle, probably had some boxing training in his youth but was exactly zero threat to Clint. At least physically. “I have a new employee for you,” Walter practically beamed. Long did not. He frowned, eyes narrowing as he looked Clint over, apparently unimpressed.

“I’m handling the new hire, Reed-” Long started, only to be gently waved off by Walter.

“No need, no need. Mr. Barton is an excellent candidate. I vouch for him personally. Please see him sorted for the full-time position, I’ll arrange things with HR.” Walter was practically beaming as he turned and held his hand out to Clint once more. Clint did not visibly sigh, and shook it again, keeping half his attention on the clearly disgruntled Mr. Long. “Thanks again for agreeing to this Mr. Barton,” Walter said, like he was the one being granted a favour here, and left Clint alone with his apparent new ‘boss.’

Long sniffed at Clint, and looked him over again.

“Let’s get something clear here,” the guy started, standing from his seat and leaning over the desk to glare. “The only reason I’m giving you a chance is because Mr. Reed vouched for you.” Which Clint interpreted as Walter was Long’s boss and he had to do what he said. “You step out of line, skip out early, do a piss-poor job, you’re out. I don’t need some charity case fucking up my floors, understood?”

Clint looked the guy over and shrugged his agreement. Long did not like that, but there was clearly not much he could do, and considering his welcoming spiel Clint would be fucked to give him more.

Clint would say it went downhill from there but compared to the assholes he’d dealt with all his life, this was a joke. Long hadn’t liked it when he’d laughed at him over one of his veiled threats while he showed him around the custodial room, which was apparently the ‘headquarters’ for the custodians. The place had so many cleaning chemicals Clint could probably make a few different Molotov cocktails and at least two down-and-dirty explosives from what he saw on the shelves. 

So maybe this wasn’t the worst job ever.

cCc

Worst job ever.

Holy shit, Clint was bored.

Long gave him the dirtiest jobs when they became an issue, and apparently thought putting Clint on the 4:00pm to 1:00am shift was a punishment.

Clint’s uniform was grey pants and a dark blue button up shirt that had his name stitched over his left breast. He always hung a rag half out of the back pocket because he thought it was funny and there wasn’t much else to get a laugh from around here. He also habitually wore a ball cap, Stark logo front and center like a complete tool, but he’d never feel secure around this many security cameras without an option to hide his face. His life was a mess. Seriously.

There were two good things about it. One: It was kind of nice to know where he needed to be everyday. He hadn’t had that since he was seventeen and managed to break away from Chisholm’s ring of thieves. Two: the other janitors. Eliza (who would not share her last name) worked some of the secured floors Clint wasn’t cleared for, but she could impersonate pretty much anyone she came across, and as she seemed to actually like Clint, she’d give him a show now and then when they crossed paths. She was awesome. Anton Bayatullah was a medical doctor from Sri Lanka, but after spending his life savings to emigrate with his family, he didn’t have enough left for the costs to take the medical boards in America. He didn’t talk much, but on Clint’s third shift he’d brought some rice and fish-curry his wife had made, and split it to share with Clint. Clint was not one to turn away food, and it was especially rare to indulge in something home cooked. This made Anton and his wife Clint’s favourite people in New York. Well, aside from Reed.

So Clint spent his mornings finding and arranging a new care facility in Newark, which, after a few 3:00am surveillance shifts, one break in (which was thankfully more difficult than Barney’s current place), and two regular mornings of in depth research into the place, he found it to be the best bang for his buck. He then had to arrange meetings, get Barney accepted to the facility (it was apparently very fortunate they had some availability at the time), and get all the paperwork sorted. He remorselessly forged the Asshat from SHIELD’s signature on every document needed. One more little visit into and out of SHIELD’s New York location in order to intercept the new care facility’s arranged confirmation call for the insurance payment transfer, and Clint was good. 

Legitimate shit was exhausting. 

They accepted his new place of employment, however, with almost eager ease, and they accepted his down payment for Barney’s place in the facility even easier. And people had accused Clint of being a crook. He gritted his teeth and handed virtually every penny he’d managed to save up over to them, with extra for the mandatory ambulance transfer, complete with medics and qualified nurse.

This meant he barely had enough left in his financial stores, both legitimate and secret, to eat two decent meals a day, while keeping a balance for the next month’s care-facility fee. The numbers were easy to figure out. Clint moved out of the cheap-ass hotel he’d been staying at in the less reputable areas of New York, and moved into his shitty, third-hand Honda Accord. It wasn’t ideal, but he’d been in worse situations, more than once.

Now, nearly three weeks later, he watched silently as the ambulance attendants and nurse, along with the care-facility staff, transferred Barney from the gurney and onto his new hospital bed with its special mattress and crisp white sheets. The on-call doctor frowned at his condition but said nothing as he checked Barney over, and then they were gone and Clint was alone with Barney, and the three other unresponsive patients in this large, airy room. There was plenty of space between the beds, the privacy curtains were thick and in good shape, and there were cushioned chairs by or near each bed for visitors.

Clint watched him for a while, not taking a seat, and then left for his shift at Stark Tower.

Fuck Barney anyway.

cCc

After that shift Clint went out on the town looking for trouble. His regular routine of sprinting through the streets and practicing his archery at three-AM in central park where no one would see him was not going to cut it. The underground fight club he’d found to keep his knuckle-busting skills in shape also wasn’t going to cut it. He needed an outlet, needed to do some real violence, or he’d snap.

The first gang he came across spotted him as he strolled down the street, and scattered, slowly; not keen to make it look like they were running away from the single stranger wearing all black and a worn purple wool hat who was stalking in their direction. He must have his work face on. This response was becoming annoyingly repetitive.

The second group had dragged a middle-aged couple, who were clearly tourists and lost as-shit to be out here at this time of night, into a dark alley. Clint had seen a lot of bad shit happen to people in his life, he’d even caused a lot of it, though he liked to believe his targets had deserved it. These targets, he decided, deserved it.

There were five assholes in tracksuits draped in thick gold chains, with knives pulled and whitened teeth glinting in the light of the distant streetlamp. Clint put them all on the ground, breaking a few extra limbs to make sure they couldn’t chase the couple as they ran away. Clint left the thugs there and watched from the shadows to make sure the tourists got a taxi, fingering the hole in his shirt and the thin red line in his skin that came nowhere near needing stitches. A little of the pressure that had built up in him over the weeks let up. He hated needing violence like this, hated that it was a real fight that calmed him down and allowed him to focus. He hated it, because it was a part of him he was never sure if he chose it or was raised into it, but he also had no intention of stopping. It couldn’t be that bad if he helped people once in a while.

Shrugging off the dark thoughts as the taxi pulled away, he churned out a couple more hours just street running, keeping his agility and fitness in check. He rinsed off the sweat and his bloody knuckles with a bottle of water in the street, and stitched up his shirt before he fell asleep in the backseat of his ugly gray car. 

He managed a solid three hours for the first time since he found Barney.

cCc

Clint had fallen into an irritating yet steady workflow at Stark Tower, which found him cleaning the main bathroom on the second floor. It was one of the few floors that was all access to anyone in the building, which made it a floor Clint was cleared to work on, and was generally more of a mess at the end of the day than bathrooms on other floors. This particular bathroom was also where Clint had discovered direct access to the way-spaces between floors and the stupidly large ventilation shafts that laddered the entire building. This was probably not Long’s intention when he kept assigning Clint to this particular floor, but he knew how to make things work in his favour. Clint was at the far end of the row of sinks, cleaning gloves on, wiping down the counter and mentally reviewing all his current trick-arrows and their potential faults and benefits, when his peace and quiet was abruptly interrupted.

Steve Rogers was a giant, heavily muscled, sleekly moving, dangerous man, and he startled the hell out of Clint when he burst quietly into the bathroom. He was pure weapon in flesh and bone.

A panicking weapon, apparently.

Instead of reaching for the gun at his right ankle, the knife at his back, the mop leaning against the wall beside him, or the arrowhead in his pocket, Clint forced himself to remain where he was. Not launching into a full-on defensive attack with the abrupt appearance took a lot of restraint. He deserved all the praise. Playing it cool he breathed out and gave the guy a look instead of a knife wound. It probably wouldn’t do much to Captain America anyway.

“Bad burrito?” he wondered, forcing his words steady and his heart rate to slow. He’d heard Rogers had superior hearing, and he’d wondered if it was good enough to gauge his heartbeat.

“Worse,” the tall blond, dressed in what was probably his version of running gear, breathed out. “Fans.”

“They can’t get in through security,” Clint pointed out.

“Stark employee fans,” Rogers said ruefully, and then gave him a pleading look that so obviously begged for help. Okay, maybe not begged, but Clint could read between the lines. He had no pity for the guy, because he knew when pity was warranted and this was not one of those times, but he also had no shits to give about people who forcefully insisted others pay attention to them. The worst ones in this building openly acted like they had some kind of entitlement to the Avengers because they were so close to where they publicly lived. Clint hadn’t needed to see it in person, he’d just had to listen to conversations that happened around him. Nobody ever cared about what the custodians overheard.

Clint nodded at the toilet stalls, and Rogers gave him a grateful look and moved on quick, silent feet.

“The first one,” Clint corrected the guys trajectory. “Stand on the seat, lean against the wall, leave the door open a quarter of the way,” he ordered. Rogers followed the directions to the letter, no question, and Clint would give him props for that at least. He was trying not to laugh out loud at Captain America actually listening to him about hiding in a bathroom stall, because this was hilarious, but also a bit fucked up. A moment later the door to the bathroom burst open again, this time much louder, and two woman and a man began to push through. They stopped the moment they saw Clint glaring at them.

Clint might have a bit of a reputation of being a grumpy asshole around here. People didn’t know his name, but for some reason they always knew he was that custodian when they met him.

“Closed for cleaning,” he said and went back to his sink.

“Obviously,” one woman said, “we saw the sign.”

“Congratulations, you can read. No wonder this company hired you,” he muttered, just loud enough for them to hear. She bristled, but the guy nudged her with his elbow, gently, and spoke up.

“We saw Steve Rogers come this way. You know, Captain America? And we had some things to run past him-” 

“At ten-pm on a Thursday night?” Clint asked. He could picture them waiting for him in the elevator or something, and Rogers rushing out to escape them at the first floor the doors opened on. You’d think that would get the point across that he wasn’t interested in talking.

“Important things,” the first woman said haughtily, looking disdainfully at his uniform and cleaning rag. “Is he here? We thought he came in here.”

“Yes, the blinding-beacon of Truth, Justice, and the American Way ran into this bathroom, a room with only one exit, to escape his stalkers. Clearly he’s a paragon of strategic planning.”

“You’re an asshole,” she snapped. The label on her lab coat said she generally worked in the restricted sections on the twelfth floor. He turned to properly face her, and said nothing.

“Let’s go, he might have gone to the east stairwell,” the guy said and they retreated, though the third woman looked less interested in tagging along now, muttering a soft ‘sorry’ in Clint’s direction before the door closed. Clint tossed his rag back on the cleaning cart, peeled his yellow gloves off, and stuck the mop back in the bucket attached to its front.

“Thanks,” Rogers said, climbing off the toilet and beginning to press out of the stall, but stopped when Clint waved him back.

“They might be waiting outside,” he warned. “Stay in here and I’ll check. If I knock on the door, the coast is clear.”

“I could probably hear-” Rogers started, but stopped as Clint gave him a look. “Right. Okay. Really though, thank you.” He gave Clint a bit of an ‘aw shucks’ look that said it all.

“Don’t mention it.” Clint waved him off and followed his cart out the door. He saw the three people disappearing into the stairwell at the hallway’s end, and turned in the opposite direction. He smirked, and went to empty the trash in the cubical section at the other end of the floor, leaving Rogers behind.

ccCcc

“Hey, asshole,” Clint greeted his brother, and then stuck out his handful of tall, wispy grass he’d snapped out of a park he’d passed on the way here. “Brought you some weeds to liven up the place,” he smirked. This was his third official visit, and he figured he should bring something for the vase that sat on the bedside table. Clint had spent more time looking at the stupid glass thing than at his brother, and it might not be the pretty bouquets the other sleepers had, but the grass didn’t look half bad. Maybe a little bit thin, but it was better than nothing.

He eyed the PICC port, where all Barney’s IV nutrition went, and then looked away from it. It weirded him out to know the tiny hose travelled from Barney’s elbow nearly to his heart inside a vein. The feeding tube through his nose was much easier to take, Clint just had trouble looking at his brothers face sometimes.

He’d changed a lot over the years, but not as much as Clint had imagined. His beard was better maintained now at least, the brownish-red hair covering his face hid the scar on the right side of his chin; the result of a thrown beer bottle that he hadn’t moved quickly enough to avoid before their parents bit it for good.

Clint stared at that spot as his phone vibrated three times. He fished it out of his pocket, thinking that the hair over Barney’s scar should be white or something, and looked around to make sure none of the morning staff were lurking at the door, waiting to come in. He looked at the missed calls number, and called it back as his gaze shifted to Barney’s hand, the one closest to him and sitting still above the blankets. Clint was used to stillness, it was sometimes a special kind of comfort to him, but not like this.

“You called?” He asked when the phone was almost instantly answered.

“Is this Ronin?” the woman on the other end asked, her tone clipped.

“No. I’m the middleman,” Clint answered just as briskly. “Tell me what you’re looking for, and I’ll relay the information.”

“That is unacceptable. I will speak directly to the one called Ronin,” she demanded. Clint snapped his flip-phone shut. Movement by the door had his attention before more than a foot had stepped into view, and it was followed by a short, plump woman of Filipino heritage. She bustled into the space and it took her a moment to notice Clint. She was clearly exhausted, beyond the norm. Worry lines sagged around her eyes and mouth, and her complexion was almost waxen. Clint was good at reading people, it had been a bit of a necessity since he’d been dumped alone at Carson’s, under the tender tutelage of the Swordsman, and what he was seeing now was a person in distress.

She paused when she noticed him, and tried for a smile that fell flat but the effort was there. It was more effort than he would have attempted if he felt the way she looked.

“Hello, I’m Lea,” she introduced. “Mr. Barton is under my care during the day.” 

“Clint.” He already knew who she was, her full name and place of address. It had been part of his initial recon into the facility. “Thanks for looking out for him,” he nodded at Barney.

“Of course,” she said. “He is a model patient.” Clint snorted, amused, and her gaze travelled to the bedside table and the vase of wispy grass. It was the kind of stalk he used to pluck from fields and the side of the road to chew on as a kid. Her smile, for a moment, turned genuine, before the general air of despair came back. “I’ll leave you to your visit.” She nodded at him, and retreated. He waited a moment, and then moved to the door. He watched her disappear around the corner, then went in the opposite direction, to the main desk where he knew Lorrain and Peter were probably sitting. He’d pegged them as the floor’s main gossipers the minute he’d followed Barney’s gurney off the elevator to see them huddling together behind the nurse station.

“Hey,” he drawled, all casual and pleasant, and leaned against the desks higher counter that separated the workstation from passersby. They both zeroed in on him, polite smiles in place. “Just wanted to thank you guys for taking such good care of my brother,” he said easily, and they smiled more warmly.

“Of course,” Lorrain’s gaze kept travelling to the arm he had leaned on the counter. His jacket was still in Barney’s room, so he was just wearing a t-shirt now, and he knew how impressive his arms looked. He moved so he could flex slightly without being obvious. “He’s in wonderful hands here.”

“Yeah, Lea’s pretty great,” he agreed, and now Peter was giving him more attention. “She just seemed a bit down today. Everything okay?”

“Oh, she’ll be fine,” Lorrain dismissed. “She’s just worried about her daughter, but I keep telling her the girl will come home any day and she shouldn’t worry. She’s sixteen, I said, she’s being rebellious. We all were at that age.”

“Not Mika,” Peter grumbled, seeming offended by how easily Lorrain was dismissing the supposed runaway daughter. “Mika’s a good kid, she wouldn’t do that to her mom.”

“All kids do that to their parents once or twice, intentional or not,” Lorrain dismissed, eyes shifting to glance at Clint’s arm again, and then his chest as he moved back from the counter.

“Well, I didn’t get a chance to thank Lea earlier, so if you could pass on my regards?” He smiled, and she returned it tenfold.

“You bet, sugar,” she agreed, and he turned back to Barney’s room.

“Lor, if that guy is older than eighteen, I’d eat my hat. Maybe try drooling a little less,” Peter hissed, and Clint heard it only because he was keeping his highly tuned ear turned to them. “And don’t talk about Lea’s kid like that. You know she probably hasn’t just runaway and the police-” Clint was out of ear shot and he sat back down in his seat beside Barney’s with a deep exhale.

His cell phone vibrated three times consecutively. He felt a headache coming on.

He called the number back, and as expected the woman with the clipped tone was on the other end of the line, sounding even more irritated.

“I like to speak directly to the people I’m hiring,” she said, sharply.

“Too bad,” Clint kept his tone flat. “Ronin doesn’t speak to anyone directly.”

“That is not how I conduct business.”

“Then I suggest you contact someone else,” Clint told her.

“I need a man of his repute,” she pressed. It sounded painful for her to not get what she wanted upon demand. “You will arrange a time for us to meet.”

“No,” Clint shut the idea down right away. His mind kept drifting to the worry lines around Lea’s kind eyes. “He doesn’t meet his clients, he doesn’t speak to his clients directly, and whoever gave you my number should have told you this. No exceptions.”

“I will pay.”

“Yes, for his services, not a coffee date.” He heard her sharp intake of displeasure. He could use the work, his pockets being almost as light as when he’d set off alone, with just his bow and sword, not even any arrows; but he had a policy and if there was one thing he’d learned from Chisholm, was that you don’t break your policy, or else everyone expects it from then on.

“How dare you-” she started, and he hung up again. He sighed and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes a moment, before dropping them and glaring at Barney.

“You know, I never should have looked for you,” he growled. “At least then I’d still be able to afford a hotel room.” He stood and grabbed his jacket, pissed off now, and left without a backward glance.

He had the day off, and he’d finally figured out what to do with it.

cCc

It was nearing 3:00am, and his phone vibrated three times where he had it stuffed in his cargo pants pocket. He ignored it, holding his position on the house’s roof, eyes glued to the large duplex across the way. The sun would be rising sooner rather than later, and the amount of activity going on at this place was definitely unusual. He’d spotted three unmarked police vehicle changes through the six hours he’d been here, so clearly it was a place of interest, and also clearly protected somehow, or he suspected they would have raided it ages ago.

Clint watched as the garage door on the left rolled up for the fourth time in as many hours. A black SUV rolled out slowly down the short drive, and pulled away from the house as another rolled in to take its place. The rolling door shut behind it, hiding it away; they could be hauling anything or anyone into the house.

Clint breathed steadily as his gaze kept drifting to the one window upstairs with blinds that were closed. There was nothing but darkness beyond. Not once had there been a hint of muddled light around the edges, which probably meant it was also boarded up from the inside. The phone in his pocket went off again, and it felt very loud in the silence of early morning, but he knew no one would hear it.

He suspected Mika had been brought here, but he had yet to see anyone matching her picture. He breathed in, held it, and exhaled. He was freaking cold.

Ah fuck it. He’d seen enough to know that some shady shit was going down, and it was the kind he did not approve of. And he was bored. And those back-alley thugs he’d kicked the shit out of the week before had not really given him the workout he needed to keep his skills and senses sharp. He had a feeling this place was more his style, especially as he didn’t have the proper numbers or an idea of the ordinance they might have in hand. He rolled his neck and decided to move.

It was short work backing down to the edge of the roof he was on, and a quick hop from the first story’s edge to the backyard’s grass. He was going in unarmed for this one. The only guns he’d had quick to hand were SHIELD registered, and his swords and bow, while fine in close combat, were too much of a trademark so he’d left them behind. He pulled the balaclava down to cover his face, slipped on the thin leather gloves he’d had custom made in Italy for jobs like this, and walked across the street. He looked over in the direction of the undercover officer and saw the man clearly surveilling him with interest. He gave a two fingered salute in greeting and then swooped to pick a rock from the front garden. It was only moment to jog up the front porch steps, and he walked right through the front door. They hadn’t even bothered to lock it. No sane person in this neighbourhood would dare to step on their lawn, let alone walk in without invitation at three in the morning. Clint stepped over the threshold and into the warm interior, with a dark grin beneath his mask.

The first guy near the door had a gun, but Clint got him in the forehead with the rock before he could yell or shoot. He crumbled with a thump and Clint snagged the gun and slipped it into the holster he’d prepared at the small of his back just for this purpose. He picked up the stone as two men came rushing in at the sound of the thump, and with sharp flick of his wrist Clint, ricocheted the rock between them, off the wall, and back into his hand. Unfortunately as the second guy fell, he took the decorative table in the hall with him. It crashed loudly, and the game was up.

The place almost felt like Marco’s zanni car back in the carnival: jokers kept spilling out from everywhere when there shouldn’t be room left for more. Fuckers fought dirty, too. Clint was glad he had put on his forearm guards beneath his black, long-sleeved shirt as he blocked a swiping knife in the kitchen, and then deflected another that was thrown from the knife block. These guys had clearly left their guns somewhere else, which was fine by him. He caught the third knife by the handle as it was thrown just wide of his face, and with an easy flip sent it back into the shoulder of the guy throwing them. 

A reflection in the microwave door gave him enough warning to twist and avoid the bullet meant for his back, the bark of gunfire loud in the small space. He grabbed a guy coming at him from the side with a taser-baton and snapped his wrist so the weapon dropped as Clint swung him into place as a body shield. The one with the gun fired again and again, his bloodshot eyes wide with fury. He didn’t seem to care about hitting his own man, who jerked and became heavier with every bullet as his knees collapsed under him. The noise was painful in the enclosed space. Clint kicked out behind himself, nailing another attacker in the dick with his heel, grabbed a wooden chopping board (that had half a sliced tomato on it) off the counter, and tossed it like a Frisbee at the guy with the gun. It nailed him in the throat with its corner and the gunman crashed to his knees, grasping his neck and practically throwing his gun away. Clint let the body he’d been using as a shield fall heavily to the floor, grabbed the taser-baton from the ground, and smashed it into the temple of the man curled up on the floor behind him. Then he zapped the gasping guy who’d been shooting at him before also knocking him out cold.

“Fucker’s can’t even take a hit,” he muttered in disdain, and kept moving beyond the kitchen. His focus was sharp, his adrenalin amped up, and the world seemed to slow and speed up simultaneously. He worked his way across the main floor, and then up the curved, carpeted stairs where he ran into his next opponents. He left two guys lying at the bottom of the stairs, one with a broken neck from the fall, which left one more waiting for him at the top. Clint wasn’t far from him and a he already had his angles sorted, so it was short work to throw his trusty rock once more. As soon as the stone left his hand he hopped into the railing and it to launch himself up to the second level. The rock ricocheted off the frame of a door near the top landing and smacked into the man’s forehead. The wooden frame was soft though, so it absorbed a good chunk of the stone’s velocity, which meant it didn’t do much more than startle the guy when it connected with his face. That was all Clint needed as he grasped the second floor banister that looked out over the living room, and flipped over it. With time to spare he kicked the gun being turned on him out of the attackers hand, and followed through with a brutal spin kick to his jaw. This was usually guaranteed to knock someone out, but apparently not this time, as the guy was dazed but still on his feet. He’d bit his tongue, the blood gushing from his lips and down his shirt. He stumbled, arm out to find balance, but he missed the wall he was reaching for, and tumbled down the stairs.

“No” a strangled, scared voice cut off from a room down the short hall. Clint practically flew towards it, banging through the door to see a large man holding a gun to a teenage girl’s head. Clint froze in place, waited for the guy to see he didn’t have a gun of his own drawn, and the moment he swung the weapon away from the girl to point at Clint, he acted. With a flick of his wrist he had a knife piercing the assholes eye, and was moving to stabilize the girl so she wouldn’t be dragged to the floor with him.

This was the room with the boarded-up window, and in the corner, wearing padded cuffs that kept them locked to the floor against the wall, were two more girls and a boy. All looked to be around twelve to sixteen years old. Mika was in the middle, eyes puffy and face tear streaked.

Clint breathed in once, slowly, and exhaled.

“Okay. I’m here to get you guys out safely,” he said, trying to keep his tone soothing, but it wasn’t something he had a lot of practice with. “I’m not going to hurt you. Mika,” he looked at the girl, who focused on him sharply. “Your mother is very worried about you. She’ll be glad to have you home.” She sniffed and pulled herself together with a few nods of her head. 

He looked at the girl in front of him, while keeping an eye on the door. “Does he have the keys?” he nodded at the dead guy. She shook her head. “Okay. I need to finish checking this floor. I’ll be back in a minute, and then we’ll get you all outside. Okay?” She nodded and rushed over to sit with the others against the wall. Clearing the floor took him less than the estimated minute. There was only one woman – she was hiding in the bathtub - and he disarmed and knocked her out with ease, leaving her for the police to deal with.

He made quick work of their cuffs with his fancy lock-pick set that consisted of two paper clips because he’d forgotten to pack his real set like a dummy. He made them wait at the top of the stairs as he went down and checked for potential danger. Everyone was where he left them, just as he’d left them, but he kept a sharp eye out as the kids slowly moved down the stairs, staring wide eyed at all the men and damage that had been done.

“You did this?” Mika asked, softly, and Clint ignored the question, noting the flashing of lights pressing through the pulled curtains in the front living room. He herded them to the door and had to drag two guys out of the way so it could be opened properly, then turned to the kids. 

“Okay, listen carefully,” he started, a bit unnerved as the four sets of wide, scared eyes focused on him completely. “The police are here, but I’m not with them, so I can’t go out the front door with you. So, here’s what you’re going to do-”

cCc

Officer Zanini hadn’t known what to think as he’d been sitting in his assigned car watching the house of suspected drug runners for the third night in a row. When asked later he couldn’t determine what surprised him the most that night: the person dressed completely in black, walking blatantly across the street and saluting him before picking something up from the garden and waltzing in the target houses front door; the gunshots and sounds of violence that started up almost immediately after he’d disappeared inside; the fact that, just as the back-up Zanini called for began arriving and setting up, the front door opened slowly, and four kids cautiously walked, with their hands high above their heads and faces terrified; the fact that when the police finally breached the building they found fourteen men and one woman in various states of broken and dead, littered throughout the first and second floor; or the fact that the kids said it had all been done by one guy who had gone in to get them out.

The one thing he did know, was that he was glad he had witnessed it.

There were two dead bodies in the freezer in the basement, and while he’d never asked how old they were, the boy who had been there the longest said there had been two other kids there when he’d first arrived, and then they hadn’t been.

The entire thing rocketed up the food chain to the FBI, and deeper investigations were launched into all associates connected to the ones left behind. When they tracked it to a shipping company linked to a burgeoning conglomerate a week later, the Fibies had gone to arrest them, only to find the boss and his top associates dead, bullets between their eyes. 

They had absolutely no idea who did it.

Now, Zanini heard most of this part third hand, and only because he’d been on the ground level of the initial investigation, but one thing he could say with absolute certainty: They had it coming to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was such a pleasure to have so many wonderful comments, welcome backs, and kind words. Thank you so much! I apologise for the delay in chapter two! I now have the wonderful Teelsie editing and she is kindly pointing out alllll my run on sentences that need fixing LOL. My internet connection is also tenuous on weekends.
> 
> I can't give a schedule for updates as I am still doing last edit and read throughs on the chapters before posting, but I will promise not to make them take too long!! (this story will be posted in it's entirety as I don't begin to post my work before it is basically complete. I just tend to get impatient when I'm finally this far through so I work the last edit chapter by chapter)
> 
> My best to all of you and yours.


	3. Shifting Floors

“Can you believe they just leave giant textbooks lying around in their break rooms?” Clint muttered as he flopped into the seat beside Barney’s bed. It was nearing two in the morning and work had been mind numbing, but after Clint’s little adventure rescuing those kids the previous week (which was pretty tame for him as he’d been against a bunch of mostly untrained, drugged-up assholes) he was feeling a bit more settled in his skin than he had been since moving to New York. “It’s like they’re just asking people to learn how to make bombs.”

He had a ripped up old backpack, purple and green and awful, but he could never convince himself to get rid of it while it still worked. It did the job just fine if he could stuff three of the Tower’s coffee-table texts into it. He dragged the first one out. He hadn’t had much chance to get to a library since coming to New York, or raid a university bookstore, but now that he was parked in one place he saw no reason not to start reading again. He might never get a fancy university degree, but he liked making things and understanding how they worked. He always had. So if he creatively borrowed books from libraries and colleges as he’d been carted from town to town with the circus, and then later as he’d carted himself around the States and then the world? It was his business. 

He plucked a hard-covered book from his bag.

“Technology, Science, and Common Sense,” he read the title aloud, and flipped the cover open to scan the index. “I’d read to you, but then I wouldn’t get through this tonight, and frankly I’d rather read than talk to your dumb face,” he told Barney. This looked like it had a lot of math and mechanics. His favourite kind. He kicked his boots up on Barney’s bed and began.

ccCcc

“Ah, Mr. Barton,” Walter Reed emerged from the corridor and into the open office he was cleaning. The space was massive, the desks having the option of being exposed, or having cubicle walls erected around three sides at the press of a button. Clint had just finished fixing one of the walls that had jammed halfway out of its hidden floor compartment. He shoved the screwdriver he’d been using into his pocket and stood as it slid seamlessly back into the ground, its guiderails now straight. Walter must have caught the tail end of it disappearing into the floor, but he made no comment about it. “I was hoping to catch you tonight.” He shared a smile that was far too bright for nine in the evening.

“Walt.” Clint wiped a small stripe of clear lubricant that was still on his fingers on the side of his pants. “Shouldn’t you be at home with the family?”

“They’re visiting Misha’s sister in Detroit for the next two days,” he beamed. God the guy was so nice it hurt to look at him sometimes. Clint moved to wipe down the desk he’d been fixing, cleaning up a coffee ring because the person at the desk was too damn lazy to do it themselves. “Which gives me time to catch up on some extra duties I’ve been neglecting here.” Walter was now stopped near him, giving him a good bubble of space, just the way Clint liked it. “Tell me, good fellow, is there something erroneous with your locker?”

“My locker?” Clint repeated, flicking a scrunched up dirty napkin over his shoulder to land in the garbage on the side of his cart.

“Yes,” Walter agreed. “Only, it concerns me to find you have not availed yourself of it after two months with us. That is generally an indication of individuals not planning to remain in their position long, and obviously I wish for you to be happy here. Is there something I can do to help your situation?”

Clint had no idea what to do with this guy. Seriously. He scratched at the back of his neck awkwardly.

“I didn’t know I had a locker.” He decided on the truth, because this wasn’t some con or infiltration job. He actually was allowed to be here, so he could answer some things truthfully. It felt weird.

“Oh,” Walter looked flummoxed for a moment. “Oh, well that simply won’t do. Follow me please,” he gestured and Clint, not caring if he finished wiping down desks in this room, dropped his rag and followed. He took care to not limp as the pain in his ankle flared at the pace to catch and keep up with Walter’s long strides. 

He’d gotten a small body-guard gig as Ronin the past weekend in Dover, of all places. Turns out the teenager he was assigned to watch was being targeted by some cartel competition, and they’d chosen Saturday night to try and take out Clint’s protectee. The kid had been a pretentious, snobby, entitled little shit, but that didn’t mean Clint wasn’t going to protect him. He’d had to jump from the third story window with the kid on his back though, just before the rocket launchers destroyed the beach house they were in, and he’d landed wrong with the added weight.

Monday had been a pain in the ass to work these floors, but it was starting to feel a bit better now that he was a few days out of it.

“I do not understand how you don’t know about your locker. Mr. Long should have presented it to you on your introductory tour,” Walter was saying as the elevator they were riding opened on the sixth floor, which Clint hadn’t visited yet. “Though I suppose he may have assumed I had already done so. Honestly though, poor form. Well, here we are.” 

They approached giant frosted glass doors that slid aside as they arrived before them, and opened, well, into something Clint hadn’t been expecting.

“This floor is available to all Stark Tower employees, no matter their positions, though many who are assigned floors for research and lab work have their own little areas to keep their personal items on their assigned floors.” Walter gestured to the massive space. At the far end was the standard glass curtain wall that encircled the building’s exterior, and between Clint and said windows there were pool tables, air hockey tables, a few ping-pong tables, and some honest to god pinball machines alongside some other boxes that looked like old arcade games. There was a series of flat screen tv’s along a solid wall that had couches and beanbag chairs in front of them. There were tables of various sizes and chairs spread throughout the place, more couches and armchairs mingled in with those, some places a bit removed for privacy. There was also a small glassed-off area that had weird lounge beds that were surrounded by domes. A handwritten paper sign was taped on that door and said ‘Quiet area. Respect.’ 

“I’m told that this is relatively small compared to some other creative corporations, but it works well for us.” Walter walked him along the edge of the room, a clear wide path leading them to a very obvious kitchen area complete with a tower of microwaves and a coffee machine that looked about the size of a fridge. A tiny standard eight-cup coffee machine sat alone and somewhat neglected on the countertop beside it. There were also kettles, a stove, three refrigerators and plenty of counter space. “Help yourself to the coffee and tea, as well as some refrigerated beverages when you wish. The fruit bowls and baked goods on the counter are also for employees . We ask that you clean the dishes you use, obviously.” Walter waved generally at the space. “The gym is through these doors here.” He gestured at large frosted sliding glass doors beyond the kitchen area. “We have two personal trainers, a physiotherapist, and a masseuse on hand at all times should you have questions about the equipment, would like a hand with generating a workout routine, or require medical assistance or relaxation. You may make an appointment or drop in on them if they are not with a client. Mr. Stark has insisted that we have the means to keep ourselves happy, so we have tried to allow for various outlets here. Ah, and here we are at the locker room. It connects to the gym of course,” he continued, as he led Clint into a new set of doors.

Clint looked around, noting no immediate dangers, lots of excellent places to hide in a pinch, and row upon row of lockers. They were the type that were full-sized, metal, painted different colours for different rows, and clearly numbered. Clint’s was in the yellow row, and Walter pointed at number thirty-seven.

“This is yours. Feel free to code it to your handprint or input a numerical passcode. You may, of course, keep whatever you wish in there, so long as it is not illegal, explosive, alcohol or illicit drug based, or unlicensed firearms of any type. We had such a problem just three months ago with, well, that’s not important.” Walter waved off and Clint just nodded, eyes flicking about the place. There were wide wooden benches running down the center of the locker aisles and curtained off private changing areas at the ends of each. 

“Wash facilities are through the blue doors there,” Walter pointed to another nearby door set. “They are all co-ed, but each shower stall is private and has its own change area. We of course have no camera’s in here, but for safety’s sake Mr. Stark has linked the locker and shower rooms to his voice activated security system. Should you or anyone need any kind of assistance you need only yell out and security monitoring will activate and send the appropriate responders.” Walter seemed very pleased by this.

Clint would put money down that the ‘monitoring system’ he was referring to was JARVIS, Stark’s AI that he wasn’t supposed to know about. He didn’t think most people were supposed to know about it, but Clint had a special need to figure out the security of any building he would be spending significant time in, and a special skillset in getting answers.

“And that is the tour,” Walter ended. “Again, terribly sorry you were never properly made aware of the facilities. Poor form on us. I shall endeavour to speak with Mr. Long to ensure this lapse does not occur with future hires.”

“No problem.” Clint was thinking about the locker, which was tall enough for his unstrung longbow and recurve, as well as his arrows, but his main attention was on the showers. Since moving to New York he’d been sneaking quick showers in the staff locker room at Barney’s place, or getting a quick splash in the bathrooms he was payed to clean. He hadn’t had a proper shower in far too many days. It was a downside of living in a car.

“Is there anything else you need?” Walter asked, as he calmly watched Clint take everything in.

“A more interesting floor to clean than public operations,” he said, and grinned to show it was a joke.

“Aha! Yes, there is not much of interest on the first five floors is there! Too right, too right.” Walter picked up on the humour, and then did his odd little head bow when he was finished with a conversation. “I shall leave you to your explorations,” he added, and swiftly left the locker room. Clint eyed his assigned locker and programmed a code without bothering to glance at the instructions pinned inside. It worked first try. 

He went to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee in the small neglected machine, finding a mostly untouched pack of filters and a dusty-lidded canister of coffee grounds. He took the carafe with him after it finished percolating. When he returned to his cart, he made a place for it amongst the cleaning supplies, but in easy reach whenever he wanted a swig. It was the first time he’d been content to clean this fucking place since he got here.

When his shift finally ended Clint took a thirty-minute shower, because he could. It was a godsend. He thought about going back to his car. To the cramped back seat, pile of blankets, and chilly night. Ah, fuck it. He stretched out fully on one of the couches nearest the kitchen; he only slept four hours a night anyway, and he’d hear anyone approaching in this place.

He closed his eyes and let his body relax into the cushions.

cCc

He did not hear anyone approach, but spatial awareness did snap him out of sleep in time to snatch an object out of the air and instinctively whip it back at his attacker. He opened his eyes and sat up on the cushions warmed with his body heat, ready to fight, but he paused instead.

“Ow.” Tony Stark, in the flesh, rubbed at his forehead from where he stood at the edge of the kitchen. He glared at Clint like it was his fault he’d been smacked in the face with a tangerine. Clint glared back. Stark seemed to like that, and his scowl dropped instantly into a smirk. “Nice aim Sleeping Beauty. Guess I should be glad I didn’t throw a pen at you.”

“Only if you’re attached to your eyes.” Clint grinned, wide and easy, knowing how young he looked when he did this. Too young, almost like the teenager he was when he started in his trade full time. It’s why he always wore a mask for his jobs and never saw his clients in person. Well, that and anonymity made it a lot harder for people to find you. He felt edgy with a guy as sharp as Stark standing so close. “Who throws fruit at a guy who’s sleeping anyway?”

“You looked like you could use some vitamin-C.” Stark shrugged. “Nice to see someone using the furniture for its intended purpose.”

Clint ignored the comment, redirecting before questions about his presence naturally entered the conversation. “What are you even doing here?” He sounded insolent and curious. Perfect. Stark’s eyes narrowed.

“Coffee,” he gestured at the machine behind him, a large cup being filled to the brim, a small screen displaying ‘espresso’ lit up as it worked.

“You don’t have coffee on your own floor?” Because if Clint had as much money as this guy he’d have coffee in every room on his own floor.

“Every floor is my floor, kid.” Stark smirked, snide, and clearly trying to figure out if Clint actually knew who he was or not. You had to literally live under a rock to not know who Tony Stark was, at least in the U.S. Or be dead.

“This is employees only,” Clint pointed out, because the guy had thrown fruit at him and woken him up from the first decent sleep he’d had since moving to New York.

“I own the place,” Stark pointed out.

“Yeah, which means you're not an employee.” Clint smirked and stood. The clocks on the microwaves all said it was about five in the morning. Clint was aware that five in the morning was turn around for some shifts in the building, as well as the general time the eager-beavers came in to start their day. He was also aware that the elevator had opened down the hall.

“Moxy.” Stark quirked his head, assessing. “Keep it up and you might not be one either,” he said, with an amused tilt to his head. 

“Yeah, well, the benefits suck,” Clint lied and turned to leave, extremely glad he was wearing street clothes and not his custodial uniform because:

“What department are you in?” Stark asked, taking a step to follow, before realizing that other people were approaching and he knew them, if the determined look in their eyes told Clint anything.

“Mr. Stark, so good to run into you.” The one in the lead, a tall, serious looking woman in a long lab coat and flats, zeroed in on the guy with definite intent.

“Ms. Chipo, I’d say this was a pleasant surprise, but I have a feeling you knew I’d be here.” Stark sounded like he didn’t truly mind as Clint slipped passed the group, getting only one curious glance from a guy in the back.

“Everyone knows you come here for your five-AM fix as this is the only floor Ms. Potts cannot restrict you from coffee before six.”

“Everyone?” Stark wondered, amused.

“Well, perhaps only the R&D department, as I’m uncertain Ms. Potts has caught on, yet.”

“Ah, moving into threats already, I like the way you work. Okay Chipo, lay your demands upon me and we’ll keep my secret coffee floor off the books.” Stark was definitely amused now, and distracted. Clint would have thought the guy would be pissed to be cornered like this, but he seemed genuinely pleased to see the woman, so she must be one of his rising stars or something.

Clint might not know the guy, but he heard a lot of gossip in this place and knew Stark didn’t tolerate a lot of people. Hence Clint’s quick retreat. The elevator doors closed, and he turned his attention to how he could sneak his bows in to store in the temperature-controlled locker. They weren’t ‘firearms’, so technically he wasn’t breaking any rules. He’d just leave his trick arrows in the car.

ccCcc

Barney caught pneumonia. He apparently caught a particularly shitty case of it. It took all the savings Clint had earned from the cartel bodyguard job to pay the medical fees, as the insurance provided by his previous employers didn’t cover it. The asshole.

Fuck him and fuck SHIELD.

He needed to wake up already so Clint could say his piece and drop him like yesterday’s trash.

ccCCcc

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I don’t like it,” Long snarled at Clint when he showed up a bit early for his shift, a week after his encounter with Stark. Clint paused after stepping into the large custodial supply room, and looked to where Long had angrily pushed to his feet from his desk. Clint did not change his demeanor. Unless Long pulled a gun on him, he was no threat. Even if he tried to pull a gun, Clint’s reaction time would make him no threat. But he hadn’t been this level of angry at Clint before, and that made him wary.

“It wasn’t me,” he denied, automatically.

“Like hell it wasn’t. You’re pulling some kind of shady shit on Reed, convincing him you’re trustworthy. Well it’s crap. I don’t trust you for a second!” He slapped his hand on the table. “Don’t know how many times you had to suck his cock to get this job but—” he cut off on a strangle as Clint neatly rounded the desk and pinned the guy against the corkboard on the wall behind it. He didn’t press too close, but he did shove his forearm into his chest hard enough to show he meant business.

“You listen good, Long,” Clint snarled. “I don’t give a shit what you say about me, but you talk that kind of crap about Walter, who is the best fucking family man I’ve ever met, than we are going to have serious problems. He never, not once, solicited that kind of bullshit from me for this job, and if you spread rumours about him I will make you eat your words. Got it?” he snarled, staring right into Long’s eyes. Eyes that were wide with shock now. After a moment, the guy nodded and Clint released him, moving back around the desk to give him space. Long stayed where he was for a moment, and then turned to face him again, this time more speculative than angry. “Now what the hell has you so angry that you’d piss on a good guys name like that,” Clint wanted to know. Long stared for another moment, and then yanked open his drawer and drew out an envelope. He put it on his organized desk and slid it towards Clint.

“Your new credentials. You’ve been granted access to the theoretical research and development floors, fifty-seven and fifty-eight. They’re your new cleaning grounds. You’ll need this pass to get onto the floor,” he nodded at the envelope, “and then a specialized hand scan will be computed for future access. You’re officially logged into the system, despite my warnings to Reed and Security Chief Hogan, who both determined that your background checks out and you’re a non-threat.” He looked sour about this, but also less hostile now.

Clint looked at the pass with distaste.

“I don’t want it,” he said, and pushed it back. He needed to keep a low profile here. He’d already met Stark and Rogers, the last thing he needed was to be given higher security access. It generally came with more attention, even for custodians, which he already had too much of.

Holy shit he should have never tried to find Barney. He didn’t need this crap.

“Too bad,” Long deflated a little more, and Clint didn’t like that either. “Mr. Reed determined those floors would be a better placement for you, and what Mr. Reed determines, Mr. Reed gets. Just don’t clean the walls unless specifically told to, and you’ll be fine. If there’s writing on the ground, don’t clean that either. Other than that, same shit, different floor.”

Clint would put money down that JARVIS monitored that floor one hell of a lot more closely than he did the first five Clint worked on now. Clint had been looking into Stark’s security systems more carefully this last week, sneaking into computers in areas he knew weren’t deeply monitored, to get a better lay of the land. It was difficult to do, and it had taken him that long to get the information he needed to gain access under the radar. Not that he was planning on stealing anything—he wouldn’t do that to Walter—but he liked knowing everything he could about a place he was under such threat in. The layout with JARVIS watching, made him being ‘just another custodian’ a bit more tricky.

“What’s wrong with me being on these floors?” he wondered, trying to think on what might possess Walter to give him higher access. He remembered his offhand comment about wanting a more interesting floor to clean the last time they’d spoken, but that had been a joke. Well shit.

“What are you, afraid of heights or something?” Long snipped and shoved the envelope at Clint again. “There’s a list of stuff you’ll need to clean, and things that are not allowed on that floor that need to be removed from your cart. So get a move on, we’re not paying you to turn down your job.”

“Fine, whatever.” He started to leave to get his cart organized. 

“Barton,” Long called, standing from his seat again before Clint could escape the room. He looked at him flatly. “I didn’t mean that shit about you and Reed. I know he’d never do that, and while I don’t know you well enough, it was a poor judgement and comment to make.” An apology. Seriously? Clint had thrown the guy against the wall.

“Yeah,” Clint agreed, and scratched absently against the back of his neck. “Sorry about, you know, throwing you against the wall.” Long waved it off.

“You’re stronger than you look, that’s for sure, but of the two of us you were definitely acting more your age. To be clear though, you do that to anyone in this place again and you’re done.”

“Got it,” Clint agreed, and ignored the age comment. He’d be twenty-three in a few months, but age didn’t mean much to him; he’d been feeling old his whole life.

And he’d throw assholes into a wall if he wanted to.

First things first, before he went up to his new floors, he stopped on the third, slipped into the bathroom, from there into the vents, and down to hover over Happy Hogan’s main office. The man would be out doing a security debrief with his nightshift team, as it was shift change for more than just the custodians. Through the vent, he extended a thin, collapsible pole he’d made a few years before for a similar purpose, so that it was long enough to reach Hogan’s keyboard. He punched in the guy’s password, which was long and complicated but easy enough for Clint to remember as he’d watched him punch it in from this exact spot a two days before. 

Clint had a real problem working in a building with an AI actively watching him and had a healthy paranoia about security. So what? Also, the Avengers lived here, which meant Natasha Romanov and SHIELD were occasionally here. He was a bit of an idiot for taking this job, but he wasn’t going to be dumb about it and he needed the money and paper trail. The AI might be active on his newly assigned floor, and while he wasn’t sure how active, it didn’t mean he was okay with the potential monitoring. It was a problem for him.

But not for long.

He may have written a code after gaining access to the security system’s general mainframe a few weeks after he’d started this gig. Not the in-depth system, because the firewalls on those were insane and Clint was self-taught, not an actual hacker. He’d be caught embarrassingly fast if he tried to code the deep mainframe. But the general mainframe? It held average input on already assessed and approved employees, namely the security staff. Clint had just written a little code that didn’t make him invisible, exactly, but did render him far less noticeable to the systems in general. It was like a ghost protocol. He was still visible to security and to JARVIS, he was just deeply uninteresting. Uninteresting meant passed over unnoticed. That would have to be good enough. 

He needed Hogan’s access point to activate the code into networked systems on the new floors he’d be cleaning. So now he carefully used his long, skinny, retractable stick to peck at the keyboard until his program triggered. With Hogan’s artificial approval, of course. He smirked as the systems on the head of security’s desk went back to their normal running state, then clicked the top button on the stick and held it down as the metal retracted, all the way up into his hand until looked like nothing more than a thick metal pen. He quickly retreated back up the tight ventilation shaft to the bathroom, and out to the elevator. All in under eight minutes.

Fuck yeah he was good.

The triumph didn’t last long, as he was greeted with a woman tapping her foot when he got off the elevator on the fifty-seventh floor. She did not look impressed with him. He was tired of being on the receiving end of that look.

“Custodian Barton?” she demanded, more than asked. He looked down at the cart he was pushing, and at the name printed above his chest pocket.

“Just Barton,” he agreed.

“You were due thirteen minutes ago.” She pointedly looked at her slim gold-plated watch. Clint eyed it. Most likely a family heirloom. Valuable.

“Gastro-intestinal issues,” he said, and she looked nonplussed, before waving it off.

“You show up on time or not at all, Custodian Barton. We take our work here very seriously and I would hope, given that you’ve been granted clearance for this floor, that you will respect that.”

“Yeah, no problem.” he agreed, though not enthusiastically. This seemed to annoy her more. She sighed and gestured at a panel next to the elevator.

“Place your hand for the security access scan,” she ordered, and he did so, feeling the warm pulse of the scanner as it ran along his palm. When he pulled it back she was eyeing it speculatively. He did not like that at all.

“Those are interesting calluses,” she decided, clearly not one to beat around the bush. “Some kind of weapons training?” Her eyes were sharp. He took note.

“Archery.” He shrugged. “I’ve been into it for a few years now.”

“Archery,” she considered this, and then lost interest, as so many did. “Very well. If there is a red light above a door that means it is unsafe, or access is denied for private research purposes. Do not enter.” She started walking, and he followed, leaving the cart behind because it would be annoying to drag it around. She pointed out their coffee break room, which had three people arguing over a holographic image by the counter, and another person trying to scoot around them to the coffee machine. The hologram looked like it had something to do with chemical bonds.

There were conference rooms that seemed to be designated napping areas more than anything, and large rooms that had what looked like glass boards on wheels all over the place. People flicked through digital images on them, but they could also be written on with marker if people grew irritated with the stylus, or how easily people could erase the tablet-generated writing when they disagreed with one another. Off on the side of one room sat two of these boards, dormant, and with three different colours of marker written all over them. That was the designated board cleaning area, which was apparently one of his jobs. He eyed the equations and designs with interest.

The bathroom stalls had equations on every wall. And some drawn chemical molecules. Clint would put money down on at least two of them being rude. He’d take a closer look later to identify them.

Some rooms were designated for individual projects, others open concept and mass collaboration.

“Do NOT erase writing unless specifically told. In fact, do not touch the writings at all, and don’t bother anyone. You’re not here to be seen or heard,” she finished, after leading him back to the cart.

“WILCO,” he muttered, and then pushed off towards the nearest bathroom, because it had needed work and he’d rather do that then spend more time with her after that instructional tour. She was as welcoming as Long had been.

That night he grabbed two more books that had been left in the sixth floors kitchen, but he went out for an early morning run instead of settling on a couch.

He found more of those guys in tracksuits beating on some rich looking university kids.

“Hey, I know you bro?” the one with the casted arm asked, before Clint knocked him out with a single punch. Lightweight. He took care of the rest and waited in the shadows for the cops and an ambulance. Then he went and got through one textbook before falling asleep in the backseat of his car, wrapped up like a mummy in three blankets and a sleeping bag.

ccCcc

When the Avengers were called out, Clint was generally somewhat aware of it, but being on the fifty-eighth floor gave it new perspective. There was an on-call team there, ready to do research at the drop of a request, and Clint had sharp eyes and ears. So the first time it happened while he was working, he realized he could learn where they were going (which had been Iceland), and could feel a very slight vibration as the quinjet took off from its landing pad on the building’s roof.

Sure, he’d spent time wondering about the things the super-team did on these missions, and maybe he’d even wasted some time wondering if he’d ever be considered good enough for a gig like that. But the reality was that Clint wasn’t that great a guy. He’d killed a bunch of people, and shit, probably some innocent ones, too, though he’d been too chicken shit to confirm after that particular job. He wasn’t Avengers material in general. Even if he was pretty sure he could take on Rogers and win, if he really wanted to. He’d probably crawl away to die somewhere after the fight, but he could win, if he was smart and ruthless. He was just saying.

Being on these new floors during a deployment? It made it all seem more real, made him feel more connected to the place. Made him think of the occasional people he was helping on his nightly runs through the city. It kind of made him want to do more: more good. Like, really a lot more. It had always been an itch for him, but it was growing in an annoying sort of way.

It was frustrating really, because being good didn’t pay well enough.

ccCcc

Eliza, the voice mimicking custodian he rarely saw since his move to new floors, was attacked by a dog of all things in Central park. Apparently it bit deep, tore important bits that made Clint shudder, so he didn’t spend much time thinking on it. She’d be out from work for about five months while they did some kind of surgery and rehab, which meant her floor needed someone to take over. Clint was assigned an extra three hours before his usual shift to help cover, and he wasn’t one to complain about the extra money.

Thing was, people left shit lying all over the place on the forty-ninth floor. Wires, nano screws, raw materials and things they shouldn’t just leave on tables or where they dropped to the floor. Some of these things Clint really wanted. Normally he could get it easy enough, but right now he was tight on funds for pretty much anything, what with every penny going to Barney and food. The only jobs coming his way for Ronin were too far away and too time consuming. There were only so many vacations and sick days he could take from work before he was canned. He couldn’t take those jobs and keep up at Stark’s and keep Barney at his current residence. The job he was doing now wasn’t really paying the bills, but he’d realized the last two months how easy it was to get top tier books here; they were just lying around in the break rooms, ready to read, and he liked that. Now that he had these new floors to work he wasn’t as bored anymore, because everywhere he looked there was something interesting to see. Ideas, equations, designs in all stages, there was always something to think on while he worked. 

Sure, sometimes people forgot he was around, and when they noticed him they hastily covered up their work and glared, but none of them knew how far he could see, so he just watched from a distance instead, silently doing his job and taking it all in. He was pretty sure he had a better memory then most, as he really only needed to see things once to recall it, but seeing and understanding were different beasts.

After two weeks on Eliza’s floor he began sneaking bits of material; a screw here, some wire there, some experimental webbing design dumped in the to-be-incinerated garbage as useless for what they wanted. He got some good stuff. He had some new ideas for the collapsible bow design he’d been working on in his head for ages, and for some trick arrows, and he was finally getting some materials he could use to build them.

Problem was, he didn’t have anywhere to work, or tools, so he began storing the bits and pieces in certain vent crevices for when he’d need them. Thinking about the little piles made his fingers itch.

So did some of the equations on the boards.

He paused in his work now, it was late and he was on the fifty-seventh floor, and there was an equation scribbled out on one of the white boards in the collaborative room. It was about trajectories, and it was so close to being right, it just needed a little tweak, and if he could just stare at it a moment—

“Don’t tell me you’re actually trying to understand that.” An amused snort came from his left and he turned to find a guy about his age, carrying a box looking at him with obvious amusement. Slightly ahead of him stood the woman who ran these floors, Dr. Sotelo. He had heard them coming, he just hadn’t thought they’d notice his existence.

Clint opened his mouth, ready to snap that he probably understood it more than the chump that spoke, but Sotelo stole the show with her usual disregard.

“Of course he’s not.” She looked back at the Starkpad in her hands and flicked a few things around impatiently. “Do not erase any of these boards,” she reminded as she moved on, like Clint was too dumb to remember the basic rules of the floor. He gripped the mop in his hands tight enough that the wood creaked , but he kept quiet.

“Stare at it long enough you might figure out some of the letters,” the ass who was probably an intern muttered as he followed the Doctor, clearly pretending he wasn’t having trouble with the weight of the box in his arms. Clint thought about tripping him with the mop head, but instead he just rolled his neck side to side and turned back to his work, pushing the simmering irritation away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much for the wonderful comments and really kind welcome-backs. I am terrible at responding right now, but every one is devoured, delighted over, and appreciated.
> 
> Final edits are going well! Alas they are take me a bit longer than I'd planned, so I do apologise for the delay between chapters, but I also hope their length makes up for it ;)
> 
> Health and happiness to all.


	4. Tick, Tick, Boom

It was three in the morning when the Avengers were called out to Central Park. The hilarious thing, at least to Clint, was that while he was out there practicing his archery in the dead of night where fewer people would notice him, he himself hadn’t noticed the potential disaster happening at the other end of the park. At least not until the Avengers jet flew overhead in its direction.

He’d grabbed up his arrows, dropped his black balaclava over his face, and run after them. He made it to the scene pretty quickly, and swung up into the tallest oak tree so he could try and get a picture of what was going on. It was only moments before he had a good perch with clear sight-lines, and he took in the situation.

Hulk and the alien god Thor were lying on the ground, wrapped in some kind of yellow glowing rope and clearly unable to escape. There were six uniformed people with weapons surrounding them. They looked like they were trying to protect them, and Clint picked out a familiar face from a few months before—that Agent Coulson guy —standing at the Hulk’s feet. His hands were empty and he had a cut leaking red down his forehead, but he was clearly not planning to move until he was forced to. Surrounding their protective circle were wispy energy creature-things the size of a Rottweiler dog. The glowing yellow wisp’s were getting closer and closer to the group, and seemed to be hissing at the people, but they hesitated when weapons were fired at them. The bullets mostly passed through their shifting forms, but their hesitation made Clint think they must have something vital that could be hit inside their oddly shaped mass.

The Avenger jet had landed off to the side after circling the clearing twice, and Captain America and Black Widow had just stepped off the back ramp, but no one else followed. That was when Clint remembered that Stark was in Malibu for a conference with Pepper Potts and the UN. Even in the Ironman suit it would probably take at least another half hour to get here, though it really depended on a number of factors. Clint shut that part of his brain down and focused on the immediate problem.

“We can’t seem to undo the ropes,” the bleeding guy, Coulson, called to the Avengers, sounding completely calm about the whole thing. He snagged the gun Widow tossed him out of the air with ease. Clint took her in, forced himself to push all feelings about this situation down, and focused. He was a professional, damn it.

The glowy-creatures must have been emitting some kind of noise up close which made it difficult to hear over. Clint couldn’t hear the aliens, but he was close enough to hear the agents yelling, and he could read lips if it came down to that, though he doubted that would help.

“Stark has an idea, but he’s thirty minutes out,” Widow said, loudly. 

“That won’t be soon enough,” a voice called, and a new form appeared not too far from the group as a whole, a globulant-like glowing thing that was riding a hovering craft of some kind. Clint had not seen him coming until he’d appeared. That was some serious camouflage. The thing shifted forms, the mass taking on a human shape without any real individuality, colours fluctuating as it moved. Clint could just make out that the yellow of its translucent flesh was slightly darker and more compact in the center of its stomach area.

He looked closer at the creatures as a SHIELD agent fired at one that was getting too familiar for comfort. The bullet imbedded maybe six inches, the flesh darkening a moment, and then it was pushed out and plopped harmlessly to the grass. The agents were definitely rattled, but holding position. The two downed Avengers weren’t moving.

“You pathetic humans, so eager to put yourselves in the path of danger, and for what? A being that holds god-like power yet does nothing to aid in the starvation on your world? A monster that wreaks havoc when unleashed? I am doing you a favour by taking them.”

“You’re not taking anybody,” Rogers declared. “Our planet is not a fishing ground for you.”

“Oh please, like you’d miss them.” The being waved dramatically, his colouring shifting subtly around his body, easy for Clint to spot but he was aware not everyone had eyes like his. “And I need them.” The voice deepened, boomed, the air growing heavy with threat. Clint saw the look that Natasha—Widow—that Black Widow shared with Coulson, and his glance at her Widow’s bites. If the alien, or mutant gone bad, needed energy to feed the glowing ball things, then her bites might only give it a power boost. “My pets are dying, they require the inner core of lightening, the energies of what you call gammashift. You will not deny me.” 

“Oh, I think we will,” Captain America decided, and then threw his shield, hard. It pierced the being in the chest, and Natasha dove in firing two guns with precise accuracy at its centre mass. The being let out a blood-curdling, inhuman bellow, ripped the shield out with a suctioning pop and tossed it to the floor. It held out its arms and yellow spikes began shooting from its three fingered hands. Rogers and Widow ducked and flipped out of the way, and the other glowing orbs began amassing on the agents and downed Avengers. The spikes hit the ground hard enough to create small craters and, yeah—Clint might not like SHIELD, at all, but there was no way those agents could withstand a shot like that if they were hit. Even with kevelar armour the impact could rush their ribs.

Also, Clint had an idea, and he’d always been a fan of proving himself right.

Rogers had regained his shield and was jumping into the path of the spikes, taking the hits aimed for the agents while Natasha had switched tactics to try and release the Hulk and Thor. She had an unfamiliar tool; it looked like it was draining the lines a bit, but not enough.

Clint always had a few trick arrows in his quiver, but he swiftly nocked a standard barb-tipped one first. He pulled back full strength, released, and drew a second. The first arrow burrowed into the thing’s sort-of-head and pulled its attention from Rogers. Clint released the second arrow as the being turned, trying to find him.

“You fool!” It bellowed towards his tree line just as the second arrow pierced him in the chest, right where the colouring was most dense. It seemed unimpressed.

The arrow exploded on cue, blasting a deep hole in jelly-like flesh, and immediately after the blast the third arrow he’d released slammed through the already healing hole and buried itself in the densest portion of the beast’s core. Timing was everything. The rapidly re-forming flesh wrapped around the arrow shaft and the creature curdled a startled cry, hands reaching frantically to rip it out.

“Tick, tick, boom,” Clint muttered as it exploded, still stuck deep within the being. Yellow goo, soft and formless, flew everywhere, liberally coating Rogers, the SHIELD agents, and the downed Avengers. Romanov alone remained clean. He didn’t need to stick around to watch. He was already swinging and dropping out of the tree as the Widow turned to sprint in his direction, leaping elegantly over the balls of melting gelatin that had once been the creatures trying to feed off the trapped Avengers. He had known the moment he released the first arrow she’d be coming for him, and she was coming fast.

There was no way in hell he was letting her catch him. Nope, not interested.

He hit the ground in an easy tuck and roll and was sprinting away from the scene with full intent to get the hell out of dodge. Fortunately, he’d learned the park really well since he’d arrived in New York as it was his main training ground, and even at four in the morning there was enough light for him to see by.

He slipped into the quieter city, and though he really hated to do it, slithered into the sewers. He moved quickly through the dank, stinking tunnels, stashing his bow because it would be a dead giveaway at this point, but keeping a knife in hand because he had no reason not to think crocodiles were hiding out in a tunnel waiting for a juicy leg to snack on. Luckily the tunnels only had a trickle of water running through, so his shoes didn’t get very dirty. He crawled back onto the street with a weak stench of sewage clinging to him, his arrows hidden in the quiver he’d fashioned to look like an awkward backpack, and strolled into Stark Tower.

“Hey, Marjory,” he waved at the night security guard at the front desk as she eyed him. He’d made a point of saying hello to her the past month, every time he left, for occasions just like this.

“Clint,” she said, looking him over. “Couldn’t resist coming back for more?”

“Can’t sleep, you know how it is.” He shrugged, and her scrutiny eased, as he’d had a brief conversation with her about trouble sleeping the week before. “Thought I’d work it off in the gym.”

“Good luck with that,” she decided and went back to her monitors.

Clint headed straight for the locker room. The showers were the best thing in this place.

Then he went to the gym, because he said he would and, in this place, you maintained your cover. He did long, slow stretches and katas because he had dug sweats and a loose t-shirt from his locker, but he didn’t have proper gym-going running shoes; doing anything else here would look weird without those.

Plus, working out also gave him the excuse to use the showers again. Clint never said no to more than one in a day, because that was high luxury and he loved to indulge.

cCc

“So, a person with a bow and arrow showed up and killed Gamashin, basically saving all of your lives, and then ran like hell because, what, he doesn’t actually like us?” Tony asked, looking around the room where his freshly bathed team sat or sprawled on the main living room couches, their hair still damp in some cases. Coulson sat in the armchair he seemed to favour, an icepack held gingerly over his forehead.

“I’m not sure why he ran,” Steve shrugged, “but it would have been nice to thank him. I don’t know how much longer I could have stalled until you got there.”

“You know this entire scenario kind of proves my point that you should have more than a shield on these missions.” Tony gestured grandly, which seemed to irritate Steve. “And maybe some grenades, because explosives clearly seemed to work this time and obviously, I’m not always going to be there.”

“Very precisely aimed explosives,” Phil said, looking at Natasha.

“It was definitely precision work,” Tony agreed, because he’d been reviewing the video from the quinjet in his Iron Man suit as he flew back to New York. “Basically perfect, though how the hell they knew where to aim and what kind of targeting aids they’re using is what I want to know.”

“Up close Gamashin’s flesh was coloured darker around the chest, it was hard to see, but noticeable,” Bruce said, and they all turned to look at him. “What? Hulk was watching even if he couldn’t do anything,” he muttered.

“So, Katniss has exceptional eyesight, and apparently exceptional evasive manouvers if they could outrun Natasha.” Tony turned his gaze on her.

“He had a head start,” she said, and seemed perfectly fine with this. Unsurprised even. Tony narrowed his eyes at her speculatively.

“You know who it is,” he decided. She did not answer.

“This is the Archer we’ve been trying to find.” Phil said, and she seemed displeased that he’d brought up specifics in front of them, but did not deny it.

“If this master of archery is known to you, why would he run?” Thor asked, a massive ale in hand as he sprawled beside Bruce on the larger couch. Tony snapped his fingers and pointed at Thor to agree with the question, looking at Natasha expectantly.

“He has some trust issues,” she allowed after a moment.

“With you or with people in general?” Steve asked.

“Pick one,” she sighed, and actually flopped her head back on the cushion for a moment.

Holy shit. Holy shit. “You have a personal history with this guy,” Tony exclaimed, and she rolled her eyes as if it had been obvious the entire time. He thought about why she was letting them see her personal feelings at all.

“You want to recruit him,” Steve said.

“We’ve been trying for a few years now,” Phil said, leaning forward to drop the icepack on the coffee table.

“And what, he keeps turning you down?” Tony asked him.

“Worse, we usually can’t corner him long enough to make the offer.”

“It doesn’t help that I met him a few years ago, used his connections, and then left him injured, tied up, and alone in a warehouse,” Natasha explained flatly.

“You didn’t have a choice at the time,” Phil pointed out dryly.

“No,” she agreed. “When I went back to check on him later that night he’d already left. Kid was shot in the thigh and probably had a concussion after taking a hit for me, and he still poured bleach all over the blood he’d left behind so we couldn’t get a DNA sample.” she sounded smug about this.

“Kid?” Steve asked.

“He’s young,” Phil said. “We don’t know his actual name, because he used a fake, but there are two schools of thought about him. One, the guy Natasha met was the middle man and researcher for a criminal known as Ronin, who works in assassination, theft, recovery, and protective services.”

“Which is why you used him for intel,” Bruce confirmed.

“Yes. Those who believe the kid was the middle man think Ronin came and pulled him out of the warehouse.” Phil added.

“And two?” Steve asked.

“He was the international assassin known as Ronin,” Natasha said.

“So you both think the kid was actually Ronin, and not just a partner?” Tony clarified.

“We do,” Phil nodded, “but we hadn’t put it together until he was gone. At the time we estimated him to be around twenty-three, but there is nothing confirming this. He was—not in the best shape, and we were barely with him long enough to determine if he was malnourished or still developing physically. This could have made him appear younger or older. His being twenty-three could fit the timeline where Ronin’s movements and actions have been confirmed, but if that was the case then he must have started when he was around eighteen or nineteen. Most people think the man we met was Ronin’s associate because he was too young to have the level of skill Ronin demonstrates.”

“I was younger when I went out on my own,” Natasha pointed out, which never made any of them comfortable when reminded. “With the right incentive and training it is more than possible.” She shrugged.

“Does anyone else wonder why he was in Central Park tonight? Right when we needed a hand?” Bruce wondered.

“A fortuitous occurrence,” Thor agreed, running a hand through still damp hair, shoving it off his forehead. “Though suspicious indeed. Perhaps he has heard of your recruitment efforts and has been investigating the merits of your SHIELD brethren.”

“Maybe he’s in New York and really was there coincidentally,” Steve pondered.

“Contract on one of us?” Tony tossed out.

“If that were true his target would be dead,” Natasha stated.

“It could have been on me, he shouldn’t have known I wouldn’t be there,” Tony pointed out.

“He may not have been hired for a hit, he could have been getting recon for a grab,” Bruce added.

“He has a code,” Natasha said. “I don’t think we need to worry about him.” She was looking at Phil as she said this, and Tony had heard enough.

“Okay,” he clapped his hands together. “Ronin. Has a catchy ring, it’s intriguing, and rolls off the tongue nicely. We really like this assassin?”

“No,” Phil said, narrowing his eyes. “SHIELD really likes this assassin. We found him first, Stark.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re contractually obligated to spout the party line,” Tony waved off, noting Phil didn’t dispute this. “He’d be better off with us, you know, if he’s actually as good as you say. I’m holding my breath on that though, because I haven’t heard a lot about archery assassinations these past few years, which probably means he’s not as good as you claim.”

“His primary weapon is a sword,” Natasha said as she stood, nodding to them all before slipping away.

“Okay, seriously? Are we really interested in this guy? Because he sounds all kinds of wackadoodle,” Tony complained, but he already had his tablet up, contemplating a plan of action. Any guy whose primary weapon is purportedly a sword, who could also shoot explosive arrows with accuracy, sounded like someone he’d like to meet. Just not alone in a dark alley, or without his suit.

“Everything indicates he will be a hard sell,” Phil pointed out in his bland ‘I’m not interested but am actually one hundred and ten percent invested’ tone. It was a serious tone.

“Please,” Tony waved him off. “I can win anyone over.”

ccCcc

Clint’s phone buzzed three times while he was in the elevator. With Bruce fucking Banner.

Bruce seemed one hundred percent devoted to not entertain communication of any kind. Clint was totally good with that. It’s just, they started off on the ground level, and every time the elevator doors opened and the people waiting recognized who was in there, they hastily made excuses and did not join them. On the fourteenth floor, because this was one of the main elevators in a busy building, the doors opened for the fourth time and the man carrying an armful of Starkpads blanked upon sight of Bruce.

“Uh, sorry, I meant to push the down button,” the guy stammered, and smiled weakly as the doors began to close. Bruce looked completely unbothered, at least if you were an idiot or had an untrained eye. Neither of which was Clint. And by that point, Clint was actually pretty irritated on principal.

“Those assholes,” he muttered, yanking out his phone and glaring at the three missed calls. “It’s like they think I roll around in the toilets to clean them,” he shoved it back in his pocket and caught Banner watching him in the mirror, slightly interested.

“I don’t think you’re the problem,” he said, voice both deeper and softer than Clint expected, as he’d never actually heard a sound byte from him before. The news channels tended to broadcast Hulk, and Bruce avoided all interviews with a skill Rogers occasionally seemed jealous of.

“Please,” Clint scoffed. “They take one look at this cart and decide I must be transporting contaminated waste. Can’t clear out fast enough.”

Bruce’s lips twitched and his shoulders relaxed minutely.

When the door opened on the forty-sixth floor Clint shared his most lethal glare the moment it opened. The two people waiting didn’t even notice Bruce with that introduction, and made no attempt to step aboard.

“That was potent,” Bruce decided. “If you figure out how to bottle it you should try selling it on the open market.”

“Too much exposure, people might build a tolerance and then I’d be screwed,” Clint shrugged.

“Too bad. I was going to claim partial creative rights.”

The door opened and the woman who had greeted Clint when he started on the higher clearance floors, Dr. Sotelo, looked up at them. She returned Clint’s scowl with one of her own, clearly in distaste, but her eyes lit up when she saw Bruce.

“Dr. Banner,” she greeted, practically bubbling with excitement, which showed itself with the slight smile that almost graced her lips. “I wanted to thank you for the help last week. The suggestions you left for the particle decay inhibitor and micro expulsion projects were a big help.”

“You’re welcome, Dr. Sotelo, but the only project I left notes on was the particle decay inhibitor. I haven’t seen the other one yet.”

“Oh,” she seemed surprised. “When nobody stepped forward to explain the change suggested in the board we just assumed it was you. All the same, your input was fantastic. We think we’re almost ready to move on to stage two.”

“Well that’s great, glad to help,” he said, genuine and quiet. Guy couldn’t take a compliment. The door opened on the fifty-seventh, which she had selected, though she didn’t seem ready to leave just yet. Banner looked hesitant a moment, and then said, “Actually, I wouldn’t mind seeing the suggestions on the micro expulsion project.”

“Of course,” she agreed nodding stiffly in eagerness. She ignored Clint completely, and stepped out.

“I’ll catch up,” Banner told her and held the elevator open with his hand over the doors edge. She gave Clint a warning glare over Bruce’s shoulder, which Bruce must have seen in the mirror walls reflection, but made no mention of. He looked at Clint.

“Thanks,” he said in that quiet tone.

“Would you get out of here already? I actually have places to be,” Clint glared, and gave him a shooing motion. Bruce grinned, widely, for a brief moment, before nodding and letting the doors close.

So, Bruce didn’t recognize him from the Central Park fight the week before. That was good. There had been one point where Hulk had tried to turn huge beady eyes his way, just before he fired his arrows. Good to know the big guy hadn’t actually seen him, though he had been wearing his balaclava, which might be what saved him. Talk about awkward though. If Banner had figured him out, he would have had to leave, and he kind of liked it here. Or parts of it at least.

Giving up the showers and the red couch on the employee floor would be annoying.

cCc

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Stark paused as he entered the break room, and took in the blond kid’s very swollen, very bruised left eye. He made a point to not frown at it. “You fall off the couch?” Then he noticed the kid had the entire carafe from the counter coffee machine that Tony was certain existed as a joke, hugged to his chest where he sat on the couch.

“Floors are slippery when wet,” the kid grumped, making a good attempt at a glare. Or, actually, that seemed to be his normal face considering the last time Tony had bumped into him here. Tony considered that his glare must be a sight to behold as he looked him over more obviously. His hair was still wet, darker and spikier, and he wore a purple hoodie zipped up high, and washed out, worn jeans with dirt on the hem. He looked like shit. Tony pondered and held out his mug expectantly.

“Sharzees?”

“Not a chance.” The kid hugged the carafe closer. His jaw was looking a little red too, now that Tony was really paying attention.

“Tch, mean,” he said, not put out because he hadn’t expected agreement. Didn’t want agreement; the kid might have already drunk out of it and backwash was a thing. Tony didn’t get a response, and didn’t ask for permission to join the guy as he sat on the couch across from him after getting his own coffee, then proceeded to stare at him.

People usually broke down under twenty seconds, at least most people that worked for him. This guy, though, didn’t seem to care. He just watched Tony right back from under hooded eyes. Tony took a drink from his giant mug of too-hot espresso. The guy flipped the lid up and slurped out of the side of the glass carafe.

“You know,” Tony broke the silence after three minutes. God he couldn’t do silence, and the little shit didn’t smirk, but he still looked smug to Tony. “Floor’s don’t generally have rings to bruise your face on,” he pointed out. Though he wasn’t one hundred percent sure the indented bruising wasn’t from a brass knuckle, or the corner of a pipe or something.

“You’d be surprised what your face can find on the ground.” The guy shrugged.

“Okay, so, you do actually know who I am, right?” Tony asked, because first he needed to clarify that. Comments made during their single previous meeting had seemed obvious to him, but he just couldn’t read this guy.

“If you were trying to keep that a secret: you failed. Like, really badly,” the kid pointed out, and Stark smirked a moment before leveling a look on Clint.

“So, you know that if you have a problem, you can tell me when I ask, and I can take steps to help.”

The guy stared at him a long moment, eyes an intense blue that nearly had Tony wanting to squirm, which was just not right. Tony didn’t squirm.

His opponent raised a bemused eyebrow. “You do know I’m actually a grown ass man who can take care of my own shit, right?” 

“What, you can’t be over eighteen. You’re one of the night interns, right? I take care of my people.” That was mostly true, he figured, though not usually on this personal of a level. He had managers for a reason. There was something about this kid though, that just made him want to help. For the briefest of moments, the guy seemed thrown by this, genuinely confused, but it was so quick Tony wasn’t sure about the look’s authenticity. 

“Dude, seriously, I’m good. I’m not getting beat up on or anything back home,” he waved it off, the Brooklyn in his accent coming forth a bit more.

“So, your being here at all the awkward hours of the night: not avoiding anyone?” Tony mined, not knowing why it was bugging him so much. Normally he took people at their word and moved on, because he just didn’t have time to care for more. “And don’t call me dude.”

“I’m good. Thanks,” he replied, and Tony decided to let it drop. He wasn’t reading any lies there, so maybe the guy really did fall on a lumpy floor.

“Fine, whatever,” Tony stood, stretched, and pointed at the kid. “I was never here.”

“Of course not, this floor is employee’s only.” He closed his eyes and leaned back, clearly dismissing him.

Dismissing him.

Tony liked this kid. He took the silent request to leave him alone. He’d look into him later. Right now, he was more interested in the micro expulsion project Bruce and Dr. Sotelo were still working on upstairs. He quickly made two green teas for them, the lightweights, and when he turned back to the couch the kid had disappeared.

Rude.

He pondered the encounter the short trip up the elevator and put it out of his mind when he joined up with Brucie and Sotelo, because science.

ccCcc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	5. Home Sweet Home

“Those fuckers blew up my car, Barney,” Clint groused as he flopped into the seat beside his brother’s bed. “Hit it with an honest to god rocket launcher while I was inside. Barely got out because I was too damn tired from cleaning all night to keep your ass in this luxury. Asshole.” He glared at Barney. Barney just kept breathing, slow and steady. The rattle in his chest finally no longer audible. 

The concussive force had fucked with Clint’s custom hearing aids, and now he had to use his backups until the new order came in. They would take two days to arrive, and had cost him the last spare coin to his name, but he needed them. His secondary aids were fine, but if you looked too closely you could spot them sitting inside his ears easy enough, and the last thing he wanted to do was advertise a potential weakness.

He couldn’t take the chance that, ten years from now, his cover might be blown and someone would trace the hearing aids back to the custodian at Stark Tower, and then get a profile image from the database or some shit. Stark industries contracted to SHIELD, and a bunch of other dangerous people. Clint was impulsive, yeah, but if there was one thing Duquesne had taught him, it was to also look out for the long game. The only identifying marks he had were his scars, and he didn’t let people see those outside of the occasional, random, hook-ups.

He’d have to work on deleting his profile image form the Towers database soon.

“Shit, I’m tired,” he rubbed his eyes, which still ached from the heat of the fire. He’d woken up because he had the aids on high when he slept in his car, and he’d heard the whine of the weapon as it primed. His instincts had warned him of trouble; it had only been seconds, but it had been enough.

He’d lost most of his clothes, though, and tools, a few of the guns he’d lifted from SHIELD, and his pillow. He’d really liked that pillow. He’d instinctively grabbed his katanas as he’d hurled himself out the door, too tangled in blankets to make it a smooth exit.

“They got my gummy worms.” He closed his eyes and leaned back, remembering the heat as it had seared his back and blown him to the ground. “Just because I kicked a bunch of their asses six or seven times, and stopped that robbery when they were going to kill the jeweller, and maybe interfered in some kind of building sale, but to be fair that wasn’t my fault, that was because of the kid who chased the dog who was chasing a cat. It was a whole thing.” He waved it off. “I’m telling you, Barney, this is the fucking life.” He took a deep breath and let it out.

To be honest, he’d loved kicking their asses, he just wasn’t so fond of not knowing where his next meal was coming from. 

He’d have to dig some interesting items up from somewhere and go juggle on the street corner or something for food cash. That wouldn’t take too long, especially if he did it around a lunch rush.

He couldn’t go to the shelter at this time in the morning, and frankly wasn’t sure he could in general. The last time he’d used a shelter he’d been fifteen, had a broken leg, and had pissed off a guy who had problems because of his breathing or something. He didn’t blame the guy, everyone had their shit to deal with, but he sure as hell didn’t think he could ever rest in a place like that again.

Here though, in this chair, would work for now. He shut his eyes and caught a few hours.

cCc

The next day it turned out Anton’s wife had made too much food again. Clint hadn’t seen the guy in weeks, being so far removed from his original floors now, but the man apparently hunted him down and gave him a dirty look.

“Eat more, sleep more, drink more water, less coffee,” he eyed the carafe Clint had just filled in the break room, and was now sitting happily in its home on his cart, wrapped in a hand towel to keep it warm longer.

“I’m good, but you tell Mrs. Anton if she ever decides to leave you, I hope she’ll consider me as a replacement.”

“No. You can tell her yourself if you come for dinner,” Anton suggested. Clint tripped over nothing. Dinner? Like at someone’s house? They must be crazy inviting him. Or maybe they were contract killers playing the long game. Who also knew he’d one day end up working at Stark Tower. They could be pre-cog contract killers.

“I’ll let you know when I have a night off,” Clint grinned, waved the container of food in thanks, and hurried off. He pretended he did not see Anton watching him retreat until he disappeared into the elevator.

He spent more time riding in this freaking elevator than he did running to work. It just wasn’t right.

cCc

“Sir,” Agent Hamon, his current assistant, approached and handed him a file. “The Fisherman case has been closed, the Director has moved your morning meeting to nine, R&D has some new wall climbing gloves they swear are as failsafe as spiderman, and two days ago a car in Newark was fired upon by a rocket launcher. There were three handguns in the trunk that were destroyed, but there was enough detail left on two of them to make out the serial numbers and they match the weapons that our agents reported missing four months ago.”

“A rocket launcher?” Phil quirked an eye in interest and flipped open the report.

“Yes sir. The Newark PD linked it to possible mafia or gang related violence. It’s believed whoever stole the guns sold them to the owner of the vehicle. Problem is the license plate matches an ID that didn’t pass in-depth scrutiny, and there are no photos linked to the ID anywhere.”

“Interesting.”

“Gets even weirder: there was evidence that whoever had the vehicle was living out of it. They found the remains of a duffle with clothes, three different blankets, and archery gear, of all things.” 

Phil looked over at him sharply at that. “What kind of gear?”

“Archery. An arm guard, and some carbon shaft arrows in a basic hip quiver.”

“No bow?”

“No, Sir.”

“Right, thank you Agent Hamon,” he dismissed, as he dialed Natasha. The man nodded and left him at the elevators as the silver doors slid open. He nodded at the custodian waiting inside, and then did a subtle double take. The man was familiar, but the context seemed wrong. The guy caught him looking and glared in irritation from under his ball cap, before looking pointedly at the elevator door.

“You do know I’m working right now,” Natasha drew his attention back to his phone, her tone all sweet and syrupy, the background filled with the sound of traffic and chatter.

“A car was discovered in Newark, destroyed by explosive ordinance. It had archery equipment in it.” The custodian looked over in interest and Phil pretended he didn’t notice. He’d pay more attention to the guy if he hadn’t displayed interest. 

“Oh darling,” she gushed, “lots of people have that in their cars I’m sure.”

“I have a hunch it’s related to our friend.”

“Of course,” she giggled. It was disconcerting how authentic it sounded. “I’ll take a look as soon as I’m done shopping today. Won’t be long darling. Ta.” She hung up.

If this was their potential arrow-slinging swordsman, than she would want first crack at tracking the situation. Phil shook his head as he contemplated their person of interest. They’d been looking for him in Australia and next thing they know he’s saving their skin in Central Park and disappearing again just as quickly.

The door opened on his floor and he stepped out, giving a tight nod to the blond kid, and went off to check out these special gloves R&D was so excited about.

ccCCcc

“What do you call iron blowing in the wind?” Clint asked Barney through a yawn. “FeBreeze.” Clint rocked his head to the side, “Or Stark farting,” he laughed at himself. Barney stayed still. “You’re a buzzkill, you know that?” he asked through a frown.

He was exhausted. He hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time in three days, which was fine, he could still function no problem, it just—

“This sucks a huge bag of dirty balls.” He rubbed at his eyes again and damn near fell out of the seat when a laugh startled him. Lea, the nurse, came into the room.

“Lea, hey.” He tried to act cool, like he was totally supposed to be here, sitting next to his abandoning, shit-head agent of a brother at three-thirty in the morning.

“Clint,” she greeted softly in return. “Such language.” She grinned, and he actually resisted the urge to wriggle under her amused look.

“Yeah, sorry I— long day.” He shrugged.

“They usually are when you come by,” she agreed, taking a look at the patient across from Barney, an older man who’d apparently been there for two years. He turned over her statement, which took him longer than it really should. He was going to get himself killed being this tired, and probably because he’d miss a step in a stairwell and break his neck like a dummy. He must have looked a bit startled because she winked at him. “Nobody else knows. I’m the main nurse on nights now, and you’re so sneaky when you come in that I’m sure I’ve missed some of your visits. You come when you can, that’s better than never coming.” She smiled softly. She was far more talkative than the last time he’d met her. He just nodded his thanks, and her gaze shifted to his neck.

“You have a cut,” she gestured.

“It’s nothing,” he waved it off. “Practically a shaving accident.”

“Shaving what? Peach fuzz?” She grinned.

“I’ll have you know I can grow quite the blond scruff if I want,” he grumbled.

“Would you like some stitches?” She finished fussing with the guy’s blankets.

“What? It’s just a scratch.” He poked it in demonstration.

“For your forearm,” her eyes flicked down said arm, and sure enough he’d pushed his hoodie’s sleeves up out of habit when he’d sat down, and the bandage he’d slapped on earlier was patchy red. He looked at her.

“I can do it, but if you had the supplies?” Because of course his supplies had been blown up.

Lea left without a word and Clint glared at Barney.

“I hope you know this is all your fault. I had supplies, and a nice-ish car and even some cash, but oh no, you go and get yourself blown off a roof for an organization that gives zero shits about you.” He sighed and leaned back, his body aching and exhausted. “You always had shit taste in people.” 

In all honesty, leaving Clint for the army had probably been the only reason Barney hadn’t been sucked into Chisholm’s shady band of thieves and killers and ended up left for dead or in prison. Lucky asshole.

“Here we are,” Lea said when she turned up, and then wheeled a small adjustable table next to him. She lay a disposable cloth down and made ‘give me’ motions with her hands until Clint hesitantly unfolded his arms and handed the injured one over. She deftly peeled off the bandage and tutted as she looked the wound over. She had saline in a syringe, and she cracked it open and began flushing out the injury.

“Not much call for stitching people up in this place.” Clint watched her hands carefully as she worked.

“I like to keep a small supply of the most basic items. I was an ER nurse until I had my daughter, and then the hours were too difficult to maintain and raise her. I had a different shift when I began here, and my mother was still around to help during the day, so we made it work.” She pressed the skin together in several places, checking how it fit, and wiped the blood-tinged water away with an alcohol wipe. “Now my girl is old enough to stay home at night without me, which makes things easier.”

“How is she?” he asked and pretended not to notice the intense gaze she levelled at him, before threading the needle through his skin for the first stitch. It stung, but it was hardly the worst thing he’d ever had done to him, and he was already accustomed to the burn of the cut.

“She is doing much better. She had a run in with some bad people a few months ago but came home not too much worse for wear.” She paused to wipe away some blood. “Decided she wants to be an FBI agent now, instead of a dentist. The things she’s interested in.” She shook her head and quickly tied up the fifth stitch, sealing the wound from one end to the other. “She’s not going to be much taller than my five-foot two at this point, don’t know how she thinks she’ll be able to take out men twice her size.”

“Strength’s important, but leverage and swiftness can make all the difference, especially if people underestimate her. If she gets a decent teacher, she’ll be fine.” Clint shrugged as a fresh bandage was efficiently taped over the tidy stitches. He’d learned to be a very effective fighter before his body had grown into its strength, after all. He’d had to. “There’s a place called Mantis Dojo, not too far from here. They have mixed martial arts and self-defense. The owner’s good, and if your daughter starts now, she’ll be in decent shape by the time she’s actually put in the field.” Clint knew the owner through the underground fight club he hadn’t had time to go to in the last month, and also because he’d asked him to not come back for a bit. The other fighters there weren’t quite as hardcore as he needed to keep his own training up, but any practice against a real opponent had been good. They weren’t enough for him, but it was a great place for Lea’s daughter to start learning.

“I will tell her.” Lea pulled away, her gaze shifting briefly to his bruised knuckles before eyeing him speculatively. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. Thanks for this.” He nodded at the arm and tugged the sweatshirt over it, hiding the evidence.

“Next rounds aren’t for three hours.” She reached out to clear away the bandages, and Clint carefully held out a hand to stop her.

“I’ve got this, you’ve helped enough.” He gave a soft nod. She pulled back and nodded easily. “Stay as long as you like.” She smiled sunnily, and left him in the room of not-sleeping people.

“Lucked out with her,” he told his brother as he wrapped the detritus in the disposable cloth to take with him later. He crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair to stare out the window.

He settled into a deep breathing routine, one that he used during long waits for targets, or long nights in places he needed to stay alert to stay alive. It was an easy headspace to fall into, and it had the bonus effect of forcing his troubles away. You focus on the breathing and your immediate surroundings, and it was enough. 

cCc

His phone buzzed three times just before he entered Stark Tower, and he paused, looked at it, and called the number back.

“Yeah?” he asked when it was answered.

“I would like to speak with your employer,” he was told primly, and he shook his head in irritation as he recognized the voice and demand. It had been ages since she’d last called; he was surprised she was bothering again.

“This is getting irritating. I’ve explained the rules. If that’s not good enough for you than stop calling. He and I don’t have time for your bullshit.” He hung up as his eyes scanned the skyline, sunglasses masking the search, and he was satisfied when no danger presented itself. He was about to turn into Stark Tower when SHIELD’s very own agent Coulson and a familiar redhead stepped out the front doors. Clint just managed to keep walking without a stutter in his step or hesitation to his body language. Anything like that would have been blood in the water to the Widow. He didn’t look over his shoulder to see if they’d noticed him—there were more than enough car windows and mirrors to watch through—but the two of them slipped quickly into a black sedan. He turned into the coffee shop on his right and quickly got in line as the vehicle began to pull into traffic. 

“Can I take your order?” the freckled kid behind the counter asked, and Clint shook his head.

“Nah, sorry, left my wallet in the car.” He made a point of patting his pockets and left the place, already forgotten as the line of customers built.

He didn’t look after the car as he moved back to the sidewalk, just casually walked through the Tower’s doors, nodded at security as he moved through the scanner, and moseyed off to his job.

ccCcc

See, the thing about elevator shafts, is that they were not traversed frequently, like at all. So when he had to go into one that a dumbass maintenance guy had dropped his smoothie down to splatter on the top of a car, he was glad. More than glad, actually, because he had assumed that there would be security measures in the elevator shafts, and he’d avoided them for that reason. Now he could see there were none, and he also saw where a vent grate large enough to easily crawl through, could lead him right into it.

“Barton, hurry up! We need to get the elevator runnin’ again,” Long called impatiently as Clint wiped up the last of the smoothie. He rolled his eyes and hopped through the wedged open doors back onto the fifth floor where they’d stopped it for him to work. Long called in to security that they were done, narrowed his eyes at Clint, and told him to go eat a muffin or something and then get back to work.

Clint couldn’t help but feel a thrum of anticipation for the rest of his shift, and when it finally ended, he slipped easily into the elevator shafts and explored. He discovered small ledges every two floors, but every ten floors a deeper one was carved out. He slid down a thick metal cable with a small flashlight in his mouth, then swinging side to side, he hopped over onto the ledge on the tenth floor. It was five feet deep and eight feet wide. Standing fully upright, he looked around, knocked on the concrete and metal wall with bruised knuckles, and swiped over it with his fingertips to see how dirty it was. It was clean enough. He’d need to put up some security measures of his own in the shaft, but this just might be what he needed.

Was it insane? Oh, hell yes. Bat shit. The Avengers, Stark, and SHIELD, were connected to this place, and it was monitored by an AI. But, he had a legit job, and while the job itself sucked, he had to admit at this point the things he was learning just by lurking in the background (legally for once), were worth it. He’d already finished his new bow and come up with some blade designs, and while he was already pretty good at the computer stuff, it was getting easier and easier to navigate them, especially after Long had tossed him the laptop that had been sitting unused on his desk and gruffly told him to keep it or toss it. It was last year’s model and therefore considered obsolete and in need of replacement. Freaking tech companies. 

Hell, it wouldn’t be that difficult to whip up a little controller to log him in and out of the building at the push of a button, without even having to leave and sneak back in. This could work. And if it didn’t, well, it wasn’t like he couldn’t disappear. Barney would be screwed, but that would be on them, not Clint. Hell, they couldn’t find Clint in their own building, and they were actively searching for him. Who would have ever predicted he would be so popular?

He turned in the space, noting the temperature, the hollow echo of elevators working near-silent in the shafts, and took in the view over the space’s ledge. He swallowed down the heaviness coating his throat as he stared down into the dark shaft. He should have more at this point in his life, he should be more than a squatter in the rich man’s world. But he’d grown up practical, and he had always been willing to make choices that might make him feel weaker and lesser in order to survive. He ruthlessly shoved away the twisted squirm in his gut, the feeling of failure and impatience, and flashed his light around the space one last time. This could work.

“Home sweet home,” he muttered, and tapped his fingers against the cool concrete, right beside the slatted air vent. Home sweet home.

cCc

“I do not understand.” Dr. Sotelo frowned at the equations on the challenge board for her floor. It was the newest physics challenge, since the last one had been solved three weeks before. Nobody had claimed solving that one, and now they were looking at another solution, and nobody was claiming it, either. “Why would they not step forward? This is a floor of highly intelligent problem solvers and creators, it is not in their nature to not—” She gestured at the equation, the scrawl was scratchy and near illegible.

“Claim bragging rights?” Bruce finished for her and grinned as he looked the board over. Physics wasn’t really his area, but he could follow this equation easily enough, now that it was laid out. He would have probably figured it out if he’d wanted to, and Tony would have laughed at the idea of even bothering to write the answer down, but that didn’t mean it was an easy equation. Especially as it had been up for almost a month with a floor of forty-two highly motivated individuals who would have loved to solve it, as well as others with access who came by occasionally to participate in the challenge. To be fair, most of them probably just didn’t have the time to devote to finding a solution amongst their own workload…maybe that’s why they weren’t stepping forward: they’d taken time during work hours to solve it.

“Two more days and I would have had it,” a man Bruce didn’t recognize muttered as he stopped by them and handed a Starkpad over to Dr. Sotelo. She swiped at it nimbly.

“Whoever solved it wasn’t picked up on surveillance. We checked all the bio monitors on the floor from three o’clock yesterday afternoon until you came in and noticed it this morning. The usual night owls didn’t go near it, Ogami and Neski were finishing up some tests and never came near here. As far as we can tell everyone who passed by didn’t stop long enough to finish it.”

“Must have been a ghost,” Bruce mused as he glanced at his watch, and then frowned at the time. “If you figure out who it is, let me know, I’d like to meet them.” He grinned and left to meet Tony and Sam in their shared lab ten floors up.

“I will find you,” Sotelo threatened the board, much to the amusement of her assistant as he quietly left her to stare at the solution. Bruce had planned to bring it up with Tony so he could have Jarvis check directly for the elusive problem solver, but he entered the lab to find Sam hovering in his falcon wings and dodging tennis balls as they tested the new wings reflexes. Then Tony threw the experimental putty, and things kind of went sideways from there.

cCc

“This is not as bad as it looks,” Clint said to where Anton had been watching him, maybe for a bit too long, as Clint finished reaching for the damn bag of rags on the highest shelf in the custodial room. He supposed they were that high because they were effectively less dangerous if they fell off the shelf onto an awaiting victim than most other things in the space.

“Oh?” Anton said, drier than necessary if you asked Clint. “Were you planning to use the rags to stop the bleeding?”

“Bleeding? What?” He looked down and noted the scrape on his exposed stomach was bleeding again, but barely, as the gauze he’d taped down was doing its job and only had a few red spots showing through. He looked over and, yeah, Anton was still staring, but with an assessing, super-intent sort of stare. This is what Clint gets for being too lazy to button up and tuck in his work shirt, and wearing the t-shirt that had shrunk in the wash beneath it.

“How bad is it?” he asked after a moment, his accent thick. 

Clint waved him off, ignoring the ache in his ribs at the action. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

“You know, when I was practicing medicine in my country, I worked in the emergency rooms. I had to get very good at seeing as much as possible, very quickly. For example, you do not eat enough.” He held up a familiar cloth bag that Clint knew held leftovers for him.

“I do too,” Clint denied, because he ate better now than he had most of his life, or at least he ate a lot healthier now, what with all the free fruit on the employee floor and Anton bringing home cooked meals between Clint’s takeout.

“And the bruising around your poorly bandaged wound indicates blunt force trauma from a heavy tool. You are moving stiffer than usual, and your right ankle is bothering you again. Have you had your ribs examined?”

Clint snorted at the idea. 

“Hospitals are expensive.” He waved it off.

“Not when you work for Stark Industries. The benefits are very generous,” Anton pointed out. 

He wasn’t wrong, but, see, Clint had this thing about letting hospitals and places have access to his blood, because that could aid in identifying him at places labeled ‘crime scenes’ which he may have missed removing his DNA from. Plus, you never knew what people were actually doing with the blood after testing it, because there was no way they needed entire vials of the stuff for those tests. Clint had seen too much weird shit in too many weird places to let people just have his bodily fluids. They weren’t getting his blood, he worked too hard to keep it beneath his skin to just let someone wander off with it. So hospitals were out. 

Clint put on a sheepish grin.

“And my dentist thanks Stark Industries.” He shoved the small, squared bag of sealed rags he’d been holding onto his cart. “No need to worry, Anton, I’m good.”

“Will you let me help? I will not report it to anyone,” the older man offered sincerely, and Clint balked, staring at the guy. 

He thought about it. “What’s the catch?” he asked after a moment, and Anton wasn’t too happy with that line of questioning.

“No catch. I would like to learn that you will not slowly die from internal injuries that could have been avoided,” he said flatly.

“Oh, there was no avoiding these,” Clint snorted, and hesitated. “Seriously, no catch? No future favours owed with no questions asked? No blackmail or requests for first born children? No covering extra shifts without pay?”

“No,” Anton said after a long moment, gaze even more assessing. “You need to associate with better people,” he declared, and Clint snorted again.

“Yeah, maybe,” he allowed, without mentioning that he didn’t really associate with anyone. Work was work, and connections were connections. He dealt in favours and threats and lives-owed, or he paid cash for everything. Even when he’d been at the circus nothing had come cheap, and you learned to never take anything without the understanding that you’d eventually have to give something back.

So far, the kindest people he’d associated with in his life were in this building, and in Barney’s. The list was still limited to one hand, and he wasn’t sure if liking them meant he trusted them. Okay, he didn’t trust them, because that would be dumb. But Anton, he’d never appeared anything but honest all these months Clint had known him. Plus, he regularly shared his meals with Clint, and Clint had eaten the food and hadn’t been drugged or killed yet.

“Okay,” he decided. “Where do you want to do this? Here?” He looked around the tall, stacked shelves. He’d prefer this place to the employee lounge and seeing as it was nearing nine in the evening, Long was long gone and everyone else was busy doing their job on their floors. This was Anton’s assigned floor, so a surprise visitor shouldn’t happen.

“On the couch,” the man suggested, and Clint shrugged, pushing his cart out of the wide isle. It took no time at all to get to the couch that sat by Long’s main desk. He whipped off his shirts with no hesitation, because when he made a decision, he was all in, and it would be annoying to hold the material up around his armpits while the guy poked at him. “How did you get these?” Anton asked plainly, eyes flicking from bruise to bruise, and probably scar to scar, but those weren’t what he was asking about.

“Doctor patient confidentiality in effect here?” Clint asked.

“Of course.” The man sounded offended that Clint would think it wasn’t, as he pulled out a packet from a pocket on his baggy cargo pants and slipped on a pair of sterile gloves. Clint was getting the impression that Anton might be the de facto medic of the building. Or maybe it was just long habit from working in an ER. Like Lea.

“I may have been near the skirmish the folks upstairs attended last night, near the Brooklyn Bridge. Got smashed by a car for my trouble.”

“Smashed by the car?”

“In my defence, I mostly got out of the way in time. The fight was pretty much over by then, and the bad guy had lost most of his steam so it was a weak throw. Could have been worse.”

“What were you doing there?”

“It’s the route home, bad timing.” He lied easily and watched as Anton peeled away the bandage and palpitated the area. It hurt, but not enough to flinch or anything.

“A car did this?”

“Yep, scene was crazy. Right out of a movie” ,The scrape had actually happened after the car bit, when he’d been scaling down the side of the brick building he’d been using for his perch. He’d underestimated how badly his ribs ached when he’d hopped over the side before the Avengers could figure out his location, and the pain had maybe startled him enough to lose his grip on the fire escape; he’d scraped it against the rusty metal railing. “A rusty car,” he said as an afterthought, shaking his head at the stupidity of it all. He should have been better prepared. He was losing training time working so many hours here. He’d have to start upping his exercise game from four hours to at least five a day to make up for it.

“Hmm.” Anton moved to his ribs, pressing with more gentleness than Clint expected as he frowned at the bruises that liberally painted his right side. “Raise your arms as high as is comfortable.”

Clint raised them right up, ignoring the sharp aches it inspired and the glare from Anton. He was pretty sure nothing was actually broken, so he didn’t need to worry about piercing a lung or anything.

The door to the custodian’s office burst open. Clint froze with his arms above his head; Anton completely ignored it in favour of his examination. Steve Rogers slipped in, closed the door quickly, and leaned against it with a sigh before looking over at them. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. Okay, so Clint would have been happier if this wasn’t happening, but it could have been worse. It could have been Stark who stormed in, or that Coulson guy. Or Widow.

“Don’t tell me,” Clint drawled, keeping his arms up and forcing his limbs to remain loose and not at all ready to kill or cringe away. “The toilets are no longer good enough to hide from your adoring masses, so you’re upgrading to the custodial office.” He kept his tone grumpy and bored. Yep, nothing to see here folks, keep moving. This was a totally normal situation to burst in on. He’d rather be caught getting a blow job. 

“I learned my lesson the last time,” Rogers answered, tone dry, as sharp blue eyes assessed the damage on Clint’s very exposed body. 

“Did you ice this at all?” Anton asked as he pulled honest-to-god gauze and tape from his baggy custodial jacket, along with a tube of something called polysporin, and began to efficiently apply it with warm fingers.

Clint didn’t answer, choosing to glare at their guest, but Rogers didn’t seem to care about the obvious hostility. “What happened?” he asked as Anton pressed the gauze over the scrape, tape already in place to be pressed to skin. The man worked fast.

“None of your business,” Clint snapped, and stepped back when Anton finished. He caught the man eyeing the other bandage on his arm, where he was protecting the stitches Lea had put in that were almost ready to come out. They probably needed a few more days with how rough Clint had been on his limb the night before. Plus, there may have been a number of band-aids for some small splinters also decorating his arms, and old yellowed bruises from his car exploding. The band-aides were Avenger themed ones because they were on super-sale at the all-night store he’d stopped at for supplies. That was embarrassing. 

“Did someone here do this to you?” Rogers demanded, a sudden intensity to his look, and Clint caught the same intensity on Anton’s face, though it didn’t quite make him want to squirm the way Captain America’s did. Shit. This was the second Avenger that had asked him if he was being abused. Clint would put good money down that they hadn’t asked any of the other employees in this building that question.

Clint sighed, completely put out as he jammed his shirts back on, and quickly did up the buttons on the custodial shirts. He didn’t know what to do with this completely unsolicited concern.

“No, Captain America, nobody here did this to me. You want to exact revenge, go find the cyclist that clipped me on the way in yesterday and didn’t bother to stop and see if I was okay. Asshole knocked me right into a newspaper box.”

“You need a tetanus shot,” Anton said as he stripped off his gloves and slingshot them with practiced ease into the garbage by Long’s desk. He began rifling in his cargo pants. Now Clint understood why he wore those instead of one of the custodian issued grays: to hide his doctor kit.

“Do not tell me you’ve got that stashed away in there.” Clint eyed him warily. Anton yanked out a lollipop, a purple one, and held it out. Clint took it, peeled the plastic off and shoved it in his mouth.

“I will have it for you later,” the guy said, and glanced at Rogers for the first time. He looked him up and down with a recognizably clinical eye, nodded, and moved to the back of the room to get the supplies he’d theoretically come in for earlier when he’d caught sight of Clint. “And eat the food I brought you,” he grumbled as he disappeared around a shelf.

Rogers was still watching him skeptically. “What?” Clint aimed for being as prickly as he could. 

“A cyclist,” he stated with clear disbelief.

“And a newspaper box,” Clint agreed, aggrieved, as he took his own quick look over the guy. Rogers had been hit pretty hard by the giant tentacle that had got the drop on him the night before. Would have been hit again if Clint hadn’t managed to place an explosive arrow at the thing’s main juncture to the rest of the robot and blown it half off. He’d made a note to get better-grade explosives for the new arrow design when he had the money for the black market. Rogers looked completely fine now.

It was annoying as hell.

“I’m Steve Rogers,” the guy introduced himself a moment later, and stuck out his hand like this was some sort of scheduled meet-n-greet. Or at least that’s what Clint figured a meet-n-greet would entail, he’d never been to one.

“No kidding,” Clint said, and was saved from shaking the guys hand as the doorknob rattled behind Rogers, loudly. Clint snorted and moved and grabbed his cart, forcing Rogers to step to the side as he pushed it closer to the door. He rolled his eyes at the Avenger, gestured that he should move closer to the wall so he was hidden by the door when it opened, and then yanked it wide.

“What do you need?” he demanded sharply, glaring at the same two individuals that had burst in on him cleaning the bathroom months before. They’d been eyeing their access cards and wondering why they weren’t working on this door, but the custodial room only let select individuals in, such as the people who worked from it, security, managers, and apparently Avengers, due to alllllll the chemicals. People in this place could do a lot of damage with the standard, and not so standard, cleaning chemicals in this room. The two jumped at Clint’s demand, and the woman’s eyes narrowed in distaste as she clearly recognized him, while the guy seemed resigned.

“We thought we saw Steve Rogers—” She started, and Clint cut her off.

“Considering this is the second time I’ve met you, and both times you’ve been trying to find the guy after nine at night, I think you should take some time to deeply consider that you’re bordering on stalking tendencies and recognize that that is both a crime and fucked-up.”

“It is not stalking when we have legitimate matters to discuss with—”

“Yeah I don’t care.” Clint grabbed his cart and shoved it out the door, forcing them further down the hallway. The man was looking contrite now, but the woman seemed genuinely angry.

“You wouldn’t, seeing as you clearly don’t aspire to much in this life,” she snapped and looked pointedly at his cart.

“I’ll have you know,” he stood to his full height, and not the general easy slouch-walk he’d adopted to stay under the radar in this place, “your implications that my stature in life is uninspiring due to my employment is derogatory, inflammatory, short-sighted and demeaning.” He said lightly as he pulled the heavy metal door firmly shut behind him. The lock clicked loudly. “While I don’t care what you think of me personally, your disdainful opinion of the decent, hard-working, custodial trade worker is condescending and feels rather discriminatory. Tell me, do you speak that way to the rest of my coworkers? Because I might have a problem with that,” he decided, the easy tone shifting flat and hard. 

“I’m not condescending,” she sniffed, backing off another few steps, and breathing harshly out her nose. “I only have a problem with you getting in the way of matters above your pay grade.”

“For telling you I haven’t seen Rogers, because I haven’t seen Rogers? Lady, I’m seriously considering reporting you to security for harassment on behalf of Rogers if that’s how you’re viewing this. Seriously, get out of my face, and if you want to see Rogers so badly, maybe try booking an appointment with him or something. I hear he lives in this damn place; it shouldn’t be hard. This shit you’re pulling now is pure-up asshole.”

“How dare you,” she seethed, and then seemed to lose her cool as she turned and stormed off, the guy trailing after her somewhat reluctantly when she called sharply at him. “Harvey!”

Clint snorted and headed the short distance to the elevators. When it arrived he shoved the cart inside, and then, because he didn’t feel like being a dick twice to the guy who’d had a crappy few days, he grabbed the tennis ball he’d confiscated from the interns on his floor. As the elevator door began to slide shut, he whipped the ball down the hall, aiming so it would ricochet off the walls and ceiling and ultimately thump off the custodian door twice, like a knock. Rogers would know it was safe to leave, and Clint would be clear.

The throw aggravated his ribs but was worth it. He fucking loved playing the angles.

cCc

“Steven, what’s this JARVIS is telling me about you being ‘accosted by rather insistent employees from the genetics division?’” Stark demanded as he stalked into the kitchen and yanked a green smoothie from the fridge. He chugged half of it in one go.

“They’re from the genetics division?” Steve said, sounding a bit surprised. “When they kept showing up asking me to visit their lab, I just assumed it was to sign some stuff for them.”

“Yes, sign some stuff, donate some genetic examples for experimentation, you know, completely legitimate shit.”

“You and Bruce take genetic samples all the time,” Steve pointed out.

“Yeah, because we only want good things for you. If other people want a piece of you, there is a process. They have to submit proposals with detailed notes on what they are working on and why requesting genetic samples from people is vital to their work, and then it has to be approved by management once it’s ensured that your civil rights will not be violated and laws around genetic experimentation will not be broken.”

“Little late for that,” Steve said, but he was considering the situation more seriously now.

“Yeah, yeah, laws change, it’s why all the baddies now do their superhuman-building experiments in secret.” Tony waved it off. “The two individuals have been formally warned to leave you alone, and you shouldn’t have any more problems with them. If you do, let Happy know.”

“Yeah, sure,” he agreed easily. “How’d you learn about this anyway?”

“Oh, you know, JARVIS’s sub-security monitoring picked up on hints of a tense conversation between you and anyone, and eavesdropped. Apparently, Captain America needs to be saved by the custodial staff,” he smirked, and Steve rolled his eyes.

“I just thought they were enthusiastic fans, and I didn’t want to hurt their feelings.” Which was always awkward. He’d unintentionally made a teenager cry a few weeks before.

“So your solution was to run away from them? Next time hurt their feelings, Steve. Your custodian certainly didn’t have a problem with it.”

“Yeah well, he also didn’t have a problem with leaving me waiting in the bathroom for an all-clear that he insisted on then never gave the first time we met. So I’d say he’s an equal-opportunity jerk.” Steve smirked a bit, remembering how he’d waited a good five minutes before realizing the guy wasn’t coming back. He’d gotten him good.

“He sounds like one of the few people in this building I actually want to meet.” Tony grinned at the thought. “JARVIS, get me—” He was cut off as the Avengers alarm sounded, and Tony rolled his eyes, chugged the rest of his drink, and then they were off for another emergency, conversation forgotten in place of more important things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you are all doing well! I just want to say thank you for the messages!!! Learning about the bits you enjoyed most, as well as all the encouragement, makes my day when I get home to my inbox.
> 
> My thoughts to all.


	6. The Brothers (no longer) Three

“I swear Barney, when I figure out who’s running these tracksuit guys, I’m going to wipe them out. Seriously. They went after a lady and her kids today, trying to strong arm them into cancelling their apartment lease, right there in front of the building!” Clint huffed as he went to Dalton’s bed and snagged the rolling hospital table parked beside it. “Hey man,” he nodded at the guy and pushed the thing to Barney. “And when their dog went to get in the way, they kicked it! That shit is not on, and I have just the arrows for them.” He flopped into his seat and allowed a little, tiny, self-pitying grunt from the jarring in his still tender ribs. 

Barney didn’t respond. Clint did not sigh. He reached into his pocket and yanked out the tiny tool kit he’d acquired along with his hearing aids when he’d broke off from the circus, and set them on the rolling hospital table. He plucked one of his nearly new aids from where it sat deep in his canal and placed it on the soft microfiber cloth he’d laid out. The device had been giving a weird echo for two days now, which in turn had given him a driving headache, and this was the first chance he’d had to get a closer look. With the nano-tools, he gently peeled the casing a part and set to making sure all the wires and bits were connected properly.

“Assholes going after kids and dogs,” he muttered around needle nose tweezers as he fiddled in the near dark. “I’ll put them in their fuckin place. Oh, got new digs now, too,” he informed Barney. “No more park benches, trees, or visiting-chair naps for me. It’s secure, probably the best place I’ve found yet, and it’s cheap.” He grinned to himself. “Only room for me though, so you’ll have to find your own damn place when you’re out of here, I’ve had enough of taking care of your shit. Got some nice new pillows though,” he said, and then he drifted to silence as he finished fixing the hearing aid as the problem turned out to be a bit of debris affecting one of the wires. He pressed it back into his ear, put away the tools, and left.

Barney was looking better, the pneumonia was completely gone now, and Clint even had an extra two-hundred bucks in the bank. Things were looking up.

cCc

Things were fucked. Again.

“I gave you very strict instructions to not touch the boards unless you were specifically assigned to clean them.” Dr. Sotelo glared at Clint and he glared back, irritated at being caught, and even more irritated that she clearly thought— “This is highly sensitive work and clearly you do not respect that. Did you think it would be a funny practical joke changing it? Do you know how many work hours you could have cost us if I hadn’t stopped you in time?”

Clint did not need this. Sotelo was more emotive than he’d ever seen her, and he’d seen her a lot with the amount of late hours she put into this place. It was definitely attracting attention as people walked slowly past the fifty-seventh floor’s tiny breakroom, and they were trying to look in the window to see what was happening without actually looking in. Amateurs. Beside Clint, Walter sighed. Sotelo had called him in before she’d started digging in at Clint at least, and fortunately Walt had been working late again and had arrived within a minute of her angry summons.

“I sincerely doubt anything damaging was intended, Dr. Sotelo,” he started calmly.

“Intent is horseshoes and hand-grenades when it comes to our work, Mr. Reed. One decimal place difference in an equation could set us back weeks and Mr.—” She floundered, clearly not remembering Clint’s name and not bothering to read it on his uniform, “—just walks on by and changes it like it’s no big deal. How many of our projects have you manipulated like that? How much damage have you done?” She glared at him and he kept his face impassive. It seemed to surprise her, but she turned back to Walter.

“I do not want him working my floors any longer. I’m reporting this to you because I respect you, Mr. Reed, and I know he came up here on your recommendation, so I will not escalate this incident any further, but he cannot remain.”

“Dr. Sotelo, surely if we listen to his explanation this can all be sorted out,” Walter tried, but Clint was over the entire situation.

“Nah, it’s good Mr. Reed.” He used his title for the first time, which the guy clearly noted and seemed displeased by, if Clint read him right, but he wasn’t giving Sotelo a reason to question Walter more. “Shift me to another floor, no problem.”

“But you enjoyed working on this floor,” the man actually protested on behalf of Clint, when Clint was clearly in the wrong. Well, he wasn’t wrong, except in the sense that he knew he shouldn’t alter the equations, and her reasoning was sound. He just had problems not fixing things when he recognized that they were messed up because someone forgot to carry a two. It was an itch that grew until it was irresistible. He’d been trying to ignore the mathematical mistake on that board for three days now, but nobody was fixing it and it was driving him up the wall. He didn’t think they were even working on that project anymore, but Sotelo apparently had some predator in her because he hadn’t heard or sensed her coming around the corner as he’d made this particular change.

“Same shit, different floor, it doesn’t matter.” He waved it off. “Are we done?” he asked, but his tone kind of commanded that they were, and they both agreed before they remembered it wasn’t his call to make. He was already yanking open the break room door though, and Walter was following glumly behind him. Sotelo walked them to the elevator and pointedly erased his security access while they waited for the car to arrive.

She didn’t have to be such a hardass about it. Too bad this was the first time Clint almost liked her. He gave her a wink just as the doors closed, which infuriated her.

“Sorry if I got you in trouble, Walt,” he said, and Walter turned to look at him a long moment, before shrugging.

“Did I ever tell you that I have a good feeling about you?” the man asked, which confused the hell out of Clint.

“What?”

“Oh yes, and I still do. Don’t worry, I have another floor I was going to move you to in a few weeks’ time, I’ll just expedite that shall I? Though if you could resist writing on their boards this time around it will make it easier to keep you there.”

“I really don’t get you, Walter,” Clint said after a long moment. “You should probably be firing me, I did break the rules, and theoretically I could have damaged their work.”

“Ah yes, but I already knew you would ‘break the rules’ at some point, Mr. Barton. Did you cause any harm?”

“No,” he scoffed, because the things he’d changed had been minor and mostly unimportant, and the suggestions he’d strategically left had been up to other people to consider and implement. 

“Then I see no issue.” Walter took him at his word and seemed completely unbothered by it. “You’re not meant to fit into a mould after all. Now, here we are.” He stopped them on the employees’ break room floor. Clint eyed him as they stepped out of the elevator. There was something a bit different about Walter, there had been since he’d met him, but since it seemed to be working in Clint’s favour he’d continue to roll with it. “Shall we have a cup of tea and close up for the night? Mr. Long will have your new assignment ready for your next shift start.”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Clint agreed, and then sat and watched the guy make them tea, insisting Clint rest as he was looking a bit washed out. Seriously, this guy! “Hey, listen, Walt, if Sotelo comes around asking after me, could you do me a solid and not tell her who I am? No matter her reasoning. Unless it’s to actually fire me, in which case do what you gotta do. Maybe tell her you did fire me—” he trailed off softly, because he didn’t need Walter getting fucked over for giving him a chance in the first place. 

“Of course, Mr. Barton. Mum’s the word, as they say,” the guy agreed as he poured the hot water at the kitchen’s counter.

While they drank their tea, Clint thanked Walter by teaching him the simplest magic trick he knew, so he could show it to his kids. Spoon bending really wasn’t complicated, but it only took about eight tries with the teaspoon for Walter to get it to look smooth, which was pretty good for a sleight of hand beginner. Guy was over the moon with it.

Clint just didn’t know what to make of him, but maybe things weren’t so bad as he’d thought earlier. This was a bit outside his pool of experience, but he’d take it.

ccCcc

Walter put Clint on a floor that dealt with engineering…things. Like designing planes, and alternative energy models, and armour, and really nice motorcycles…that could theoretically fly.

There were diagrams everywhere, and test models of lots of gadgets, and a box of scrap in nearly every room they built the small stuff in.

It was awesome.

The only problem? There were three guys who were straight up dicks, and they liked to work late. Clint quickly pegged them as the juniors on the floor, or maybe even interns, but he wasn’t interested in asking. They sat around their lab space and tossed a hacky-sac ball back and forth as they talked. The ring leader of the three took one look at Clint as he wandered in the room to dump out the trash cans, and narrowed his eyes in speculation. Trouble.

“You’re the new guy, huh?” he wondered, and Clint looked over as he dumped the bin by the door into the black garbage bag on his cart. It was the guy who had been carrying the box for Dr. Sotelo months ago, and he was giving Clint the same unimpressed once-over he’d done that last time. Clint raised an eyebrow, because it was pretty obvious he was new to the floor, even if this was his third night here and they’d completely ignored him until now.

“What, you’re too good to talk to us lowly scientists?” He raised his eyebrows expectantly at Clint.

“Aw leave the guy alone, Ross, he’s probably just shy. Not used to being around so much real work.” The second guy nodded at the computer monitors and the holographic modulators they’d been futzing with. Clint looked over to that guy and stared. It was pretty clear the guy didn’t know how to respond to the look Clint was giving him when he missed catching the hacky-sac that the third guy tossed his way.

“Listen,” Ross said, and dropped his feet off the desk so he could lean forward over his knees. “We’ve got delicate projects going on in here,” he told Clint, “and while we don’t mind you coming around to mop up and do whatever other important work you’ve got, you need to watch what you touch in here. Capiche?” The second guy snorted, but the third guy remained quiet, watching.

Clint considered how to respond. On the one hand, he could kick the guys ass. On the other hand, he could ignore him, respond verbally, insult him in return, or walk away. Walking away was the best option, because he wanted to stick to this floor for a bit, and these guys weren’t worth his energy. He dropped the small garbage bin to the floor, loudly, and shoved his cart out the door when it slid open automatically. See, he could respond reasonably and maturely. He heard a snort, from the third guy. He paused before he left the room completely and looked back at Ross.

“You spelled ‘finite’ wrong.” He nodded at the board they’d set up to scratch base concepts for holographics on, like a memory board Clint guessed, or the scientific version of doodling. “Finite Gravitation, it’s ite not iet.” He tossed over his shoulder. It was stupid, but it grated, and that weak response was the safest reaction before he detoured to something that might escalate quickly and badly, considering the level of tension in that room.

Clint would avoid them.

cCc

Avoiding them wasn’t always easy. He started cleaning the other end of the floor first, and most nights they were gone by the time his last hour rolled through. The second time he bumped into them was in the floor’s small break room. The Ross guy had ignored him, right up until he very obviously dropped an entire glass jar of honey and it smashed all over the floor.

Aw honey. Clint looked at the wasted food spreading in a sticky golden pool across the tile floor. He liked honey, and this kind of waste disgusted him. It must have taken the bees forever to make that much of it. Clint would put money down that millions of people had never had the opportunity to ever even have a taste of it. This was straight up ignorant.

“Oops,” Ross said flatly. “Try not to cut yourself cleaning that up,” he tossed over his shoulder, as he and the other two filtered out the door.

There was too much glass shattered throughout the mess to save any of the honey, not that he was desperate enough at the moment to scrape it off the floor to eat, but it was a shame.

Overall, though, Clint was confused by the entire confrontation. What was the point of it? He had literally nothing to do with them, and in his other profession people wouldn’t dare act like this towards him. Is this what high school was like for some people? Like the tv shows demonstrated? He was glad he’d skipped school if this is what it was like. Clint clenched his teeth in irritation and got to work cleaning up the wasted honey.

ccCcc

Apparently avoiding the tracksuit mafia assholes was also becoming difficult. Sort of. Well, Clint could avoid them if he didn’t head out after shift and keep ‘stepping in the way of our business, Bro.’

They were a bit of a joke for him on a physical level; they hadn’t been a challenge yet, and clearly were more of the point-and-shoot guys used to intimidate civilians. Clint really didn’t give them any street cred. But apparently they were taking exception to his interference, and he supposed, after the last few months, he should have maybe expected an increase in retaliation.

“Fuuuuuck me,” Clint groaned, picking himself up off the pavement and eyeing the three men that were in front of him. “Seriously? A set up?” Clint rolled his neck and rubbed at his ear through the thin material of the balaclava he was wearing. The movement reset the tiny aid that had shaken loose from the impact. The impact into the stack of cars at his back had been unexpected and jarring, but he should have seen it coming. Dummy.

He’d found himself in this small junk yard just south of the West Village because he’d heard from a distraught mother whom he’d helped in central park the hour before, that there was a deal involving kids going down here.

Shit, the set up was so obvious now, he really should have seen it.

The two men who had slipped from the shadows with impressive silence had been responsible for kicking Clint, simultaneously, into the car stack behind him. They had swiftly moved to flank a taller man and now stood facing Clint menacingly. All three men were decked out in some pretty nice suits, and Clint was feeling slightly underdressed in his standard black on black ensemble of cargo-pants, long sleeve shirt, and customized leather gloves. Clearly these guys were a step above the general tracksuit foot soldiers. 

“Our boss is not pleased with your interference,” the tallest of the three said flatly, and the metal gauntlet that wrapped around his right hand and midway up his forearm began to glow. The guy lifted his clenched fist towards Clint with intent. Shit. Shitshitshit.

“Aw come on,” Clint grunted, and dove out of the way. There was a slight whine as the gauntlet’s energy gathered and then a jet of mustard-yellow laser stabbed with a soft sizzle where he’d been standing. The rusted car door that had been at Clint’s back vaporized into a tinkle of metal dust. There must be a specialized focusing crystal encased on the back of the hand. The beam it fired was pencil thin, but the flash of light upon impact with the door was nearly blinding.

Clint had not seen a weapon quite like this before.

“Nice toy,” he appraised as he resettled on his feet after the quick roll. “Does it come with a carrying case?”

The gauntlet man glared; his brown eyes nearly black in the dark but Clint could differentiate. Clint’s own eyes were the only distinguishing feature the guy could see beneath his balaclava, so he winked. Gauntlet’s lips pressed together thinly, but instead of firing again he nodded at the two men by his side to attack.

So, the laser gauntlet needed a moment to recharge. Clint needed a moment to regroup: his back was a hot mess from the impact with the car, and his chest was a hot mess from the impact from the boots of the two guys approaching him. He ignored what he needed, and didn’t wait for them to reach him, going on the offensive.

They were skilled. They were better than he’d had to deal with in a while. They wore thick, chunky sunglasses, and seeing as it was about three in the morning, Clint imagined they were customized night-vision goggles or something. The pair moved with fluidity that spoke of a lifetime of training and asserting their strength, and they’d clearly been working together a long time.

They’d been raised in the fight. Like Clint.

But not quite like Clint, because he was awesome.

He threw himself into a twisting back-handspring at the last moment and managed to clip one in the head with his heel as he spun between them, splitting them up the middle. The one he missed had twisted just enough to avoid the impact but had still been in reach, and he chased Clint with a knuckle jab that knocked his elbow and threw off his follow through landing. Clint adjusted and tucked into a shoulder roll instead, popping to his feet in time to block a flurry of kicks, and then he twisted into a dance to avoid the fists coming at his back from the guy he’d managed to kick.

They went after him simultaneously from opposite sides throwing out elbows and blocks and wrist grabs, forcing him to divide his attention as he bowed his head so the fists and elbows missed him by a hairsbreadth. They were steady and annoying, and he didn’t like this.

He spun and dropped low, grinning beneath his mask when their fists (that had been looking to crush his head between them), crashed together with enough force to break a bone or two. As their knuckles connected he was already tumbling into a controlled front-shoulder roll. He used the rolls momentum to push into a tight cartwheel to give himself a few extra feet of space. His boots slid on the dirt, and as he stopped with his back at another stack of lopsided and crushed sedans, he heard the whine of the gauntlet. Clint jumped as high as he could, grabbing at the floor of a car that was missing its passenger door. He swiftly dragged himself up to find purchase for his feet on the hood of the car beneath it, and back flipped off the entire stack just as the weapon discharged. He closed his eyes to the flash—which was much brighter this time—because he didn’t need to see to know where he was going to land.

He came down on the chest of one of the Armani ninjas. The guy twisted to avoid the full impact, and it threw Clint off enough that he stumbled to the ground and had to back roll to pick himself back up. The other guy pulled a knife and lunged at Clint before he was fully standing. Clint had good footing though, because of course he did, and he bent deeply backwards so the swift swipe of the knife glided over where his neck had been. He dropped a hand to the ground as he leaned out of the knifes path and used it to brace himself, and kicked up with both feet. He knocked the knife out of the guy’s hand with this left foot, and delivered a devastating follow through kick to the underside of his attackers jaw with his right foot. The guy staggered on his feet and stumbled back, crashing into a low stack of tires and tripping over to land behind them.

Clint used what was left of his momentum to twist to the side and land in a crouch. Too slow he moved to stand and was unable to avoid an attack from his other opponent. A metal pipe smacked hard into his thigh. His leg went numb and buckled beneath him, and the moment needed to regain his footing cost him a glancing pipe blow to the chest. He pivoted on his good leg and caught the pipe in his hand as the third swing aimed for his head. He used the momentum to pull the guy off balance, then landed a solid uppercut. He jabbed his knuckles into the guy’s throat for good measure, and he dropped to his knees, gasping.

The fighter that had fallen behind the tires was back, blood trickling from a split lip as he snarled and came at Clint again. It was times like this Clint thought that he should maybe bring some weapons with him on these nightly jaunts. Like his bow, so he could have just shot them. But where was the challenge in that? 

A deep, buzzing hum filtered through his ears amongst the noise of their fight, and Clint noticed a drone hovering high overhead. The brief distraction cost him as the guy made an unexpected, twisting move and pinned Clint to the ground. Large hands wrapped around his throat before Clint’s back slammed into the hard dirt.

“You another fucking Daredevil? Huh?” the guy snarled with a heavy Irish accent.

“What?” Clint tried to gasp out, and then he heard the telltale whine of the gauntlet, saw his attacker’s blood-coated teeth as he grinned maliciously and pressed harder to hold Clint’s head down and still by the neck. Clint figured the gauntlet guy must have decent aim if this sucker wasn’t getting out of the way of the shot Clint knew was aimed at his face. Clint shifted from where he’d been about to break the guys grip and grabbed at the lapels of his designer jacket. Then, without hesitation, he kneed the guy in the nuts as hard as he could from on his back. The shock of pain loosened his grip around Clint’s neck; clearly he had thought Clint would fight with some kind of honour and hadn’t expected the dirty move. Clint wasted no time in using the pained distraction to pull hard at the jacket and, using the knee still lodged between the guys reactively clenched thighs, Clint heaved him up and flipped him over his head. The weapon fired.

Clint was scrambling away as the beam hit the suit-ninja, but he felt the radiant burst of warmth on his side as he’d rolled, and noted that the brightness of the disintegrating beam was greatly dimmed when it hit living flesh.

“Nooooooo!” the other suit gasped out from his damaged throat, anguished and furious as he scrambled over and fell to his knees at the pile of ash that was blowing away in the night’s breeze. Clint was glad for the balaclava covering his mouth and nose: he didn’t want to breathe that shit in.

He stood up slowly and took in the scene. The man in the suit was on his knees, sifting his hands through the pile of ash before him; and the gauntlet man stood fifteen feet away, a furious look on his face. The gauntlet was charging up again. Apparently longer charges allowed for more power and beam width, but Clint figured it didn’t need very long to still be dangerous.

“Brother,” the guy on his knees gasped. Clint didn’t feel a pang of regret at the pain in the voice. They’d started this, and Clint had never had an issue with finishing what other people started. That was the Ronin in him, he supposed, the disconnect had been trained, and beaten, and burned into him. Maybe later, when this was over and he was safe, he’d feel something at the pure emotion in the man’s cry, but it had no place here.

The guy looked up at Clint, deep green eyes red rimmed with fury.

“Wasn’t me,” Clint raised his hands immediately, and then pointed at the gauntlet man. The suit ninja, nostrils flaring, breathed deep shaky breaths as he considered this, and then turned to stare at the person in charge. The gauntlet guy narrowed his own eyes.

“You knew the risks when you signed on,” he snapped, and ohhh boy, was that the wrong thing to say. Clint didn’t even like his own brother and if someone had said that to him in this situation, he would have ripped them apart.

“Ahhhhhhhhh!” The guy on the floor jumped to his feet and charged, all sense of training and professionalism gone. The gauntlet man didn’t hesitate to fire, a thin beam of dull yellow hitting the ninja right in the chest. It wasn’t fully charged, but it was charged enough that it disintegrated half his torso. Dude was dead instantly.

“Gross,” Clint muttered, and swooped down to the ground to pick up a stone that was the size of a golf ball. He tossed it up and down in his left hand to get a feel for it. “Do you think I got the message yet? Can we go home now?” he asked as he looked across the ash and mutilated body, to the man who was glowering at him. Gauntlet guy wouldn’t be telling tales of this night, but Clint didn’t know how good the drone’s audio was, so he made sure to add a soft British lilt to his words. It would help disguise his nationality. 

“Who are you?” the man demanded, the gauntlet recharging, and he lifted it to point at Clint. Clint had been watching carefully during its last firing, so he knew the weapon was activated by a pressure switch in the palm. If the guy squeezed his fist it would trigger the blast.

“I’m your worst nightmare,” Clint said in the deepest voice he could muster, and then coughed, because it aggravated his sore throat. He would have to ice it later to avoid bruising from the chokehold. He tossed the stone in the air again and rolled his neck slightly as it fell back into his sore palm. He was well aware that once the adrenalin drained away he would feel like shit. Clearly the people angry with Clint hadn’t thought he’d stand a chance against the Irish ninja twins. They had put up a good fight—one of the better he’d been in.

Clint looked at the bloody body again, and recognition struck. Holy shit. These were the Brothers Three. It had to be, or what had been left of them anyway. They were a legend in the merc world. A triplet assassin group that had been around since before Clint had started out as Ronin, and had some kind of telepathic connection that allowed silent communication. It had been rumoured the third brother had died in a parachuting accident years ago, and that one of the remaining triplets had been responsible. Ah, sibling rivalry. Though if the rules on brotherly-mind-reading were true he didn’t know how the third triplet hadn’t seen it coming.

Regardless, holy shit! Damn, he couldn’t even take credit as Ronin for taking them out, not in this situation. It would have upped his street cred for sure.

“Awww, reputation,” he muttered.

“You will stop interfering in our employer’s business,” gauntlet man ordered, clearly buying time for his weapon to charge. Apparently he thought he had Clint dead to rights.

“I would, if your employer wasn’t being a dick. Not so interested in stopping now.” He shrugged. He really didn’t care what they were up to, so long as they stopped putting innocent people in the way. Clint tossed the rock in the air once more, and maneuvered it in his fingers to where he wanted.

Police sirens could be heard in the distance, and Clint would put money on them heading here. He’d seen the blinking light on the junkyard’s security camera, even if the other three hadn’t cared about it.

“Do you honestly think you can defeat me with a stone?” The man snarled.

“What? No,” Clint shook his head at the stupidity of that idea. “The rock’s for the drone,” he nodded at the thing hovering high over their heads. “This tiny screw is what I’m going to take you out with,” he held up the tiny rusted thing that he’d plucked from the junkyard’s dirt in his other hand. The gauntlet man shifted, but he was too late, Clint had already flicked the screw and the rock at their targets. The rock took a moment longer to impact as it was a good ten meters further away, but all the same his missiles landed true.

The screw imbedded right into the focusing crustal as it charged to fire, and the impact was enough to scratch the surface, which was enough to disrupt the firing trajectory, which was Clint’s plan. He still dove behind the pile of rubber tires as the weapon erupted back on its controller, the flash an oddly lopsided mixture of bright and dull as the gauntlet evaporated along with the guy and took out a good chunk of a car pile behind him. Clint heard the drone crash down not far from him.

He went and picked up the sunglasses the brother had dropped what felt like ages ago, and slipped them on over his eyes. The junkyard lit up like it was the middle of the afternoon. Neat. He’d used something like this the year before when he’d been protecting a tech company’s shipment.

Clint wandered over to the fallen drone and picked it up, turning it this way and that, but he couldn’t see any discerning features. It had a wireless camera, so it had clearly recorded this whole event, but there was no memory stick for him to snag. He dropped it to the ground, took a look at the slight crater where the gauntlet guy had been, and swiftly left the yard. As he slipped into a back alley, he heard the pile of cars that had been behind the guy teeter over and crash down. He moved to the nearest garbage bin, hopped up, used the height to launch himself to the bottom of a rickety metal staircase, swiftly climbed to the top and went roof hopping. It was a cloudy night so satellite surveillance wouldn’t record him here, and eventually he joined early morning commuters and slipped back over to the Tower and inside.

Nobody gave him a second look as he wandered through security and up to the bathroom on the third floor.

ccCcc 

“Oh dear,” Walter said as Clint pushed into the custodial room for his cart to find the guy sitting on the couch next to a sour looking Long. Long was holding a mug of tea like it offended him but didn’t want to insult Walter by refusing to drink it. There was a shiny metal thermos on the coffee table in front of the couch, with a personalized WR engraved in fancy lettering on the side.

“What the hell happened to you?” Long demanded, staring at Clint’s face, and Clint felt his cheeks heat in response at the combined stares. He had been getting looks in the hall, but most people had the courtesy to ignore him or just didn’t care. These two were more than strangers though.

“Bad morning at the gym,” Clint shrugged, and moved to grab his cart from its parking spot along the far wall. Eliza, back in rotation, had dumped hers in front of his again, and left a wrapped caramel candy on top of his pile of clean rags.

“I dare say, are you feeling well enough to work today? You are moving rather stiffly,” Walter had gotten up from the seat and followed Clint over, and Clint was dismayed to see Long had done the same.

“Yeah, of course. I’m fine. It’s just a few bruises. Guy got a lucky shot in.,” Clint mimicked a couple slow boxing jabs and grinned. Walter frowned.

“Why do you smell like ozone?” Long asked, taking a deep inhalation from beside Walter.

“What?” Clint startled, because he hadn’t noticed. The laser weapon from the night before must have left a stench on his hair even after he’d showered. Or something. Clint made a sniff at his armpits, like that might be the culprit, and shrugged. “Beats me. Not sure what ozone’s supposed to smell like.”

The balaclava he’d been wearing hadn’t protected his face from the brothers’ punches, which was why he was sporting two thin steri-strips on his cheek and a small skin-toned band-aid on the bridge of his nose. Fortunately, his neck had barely bruised and his work shirts collar hid the thumbprint marks and redness. Clint stuffed his customary red rag in his back pocket and popped the caramel in his mouth.

“So long as you’re certain you’re all right,” Walter checked, and Clint gave him a genuine grin, because he was fine. Really, he came off pretty well considering who he’d been up against the night before. Best match he’d had in a while. He adjusted the Stark Industries ballcap he always wore while working. Walter muttered about the time and went to collect his thermos after polite goodbyes. Clint restocked on urinal cakes and window washing fluid. Today was Wednesday, it was mirror-in-the-bathroom cleaning day.

“You a bareknuckle boxer then? What gym are you at?” Long asked, still standing by Clint’s cart as he came back from grabbing the spray and cakes. Clint tossed them into their designated spot as he eyed Long.

“You box?” he asked, genuinely curious, because the guy didn’t move like a fighter. Then again, Clint made a concerted effort to not move like one as well.

“Used to. Not much interest in it these days, too many knocks to the head. Got a brother who gets near weekly migraines from the damage. We usually weren’t dumb enough to go at it without the gloves though.” He eyed the bridge of Clint’s nose and Clint forced a lighthearted laugh.

“Happens that way sometimes.” He shrugged it off.

“What gym? They shouldn’t be allowing that crap,” Long huffed, and looked steadily at Clint. 

Clint met the gaze, and smirked. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a bit of fun.”

“Well watch that fun. You keep showing up to work looking like that and I’ll dock your hours so you don’t make the soft scientists nervous.”

“You’re all heart.” Clint snorted, grabbed his cart, and pushed it past Long, who was now eyeing one of the carts that cleaned the tenth floor. That guy never kept anything organized.

Three hours later though, when he was making his customary pot of coffee, Anton strolled in with a bag of crack-and-shake icepacks and a grumpy glare as he made Clint prove his ribs weren’t broken. Again. They didn’t talk about how Clint was injured this time, and Anton didn’t ask about the concentrated deep bruising from the pipe. Anton just spoke about his family back home and the nephews who were apparently soccer stars. Sorry, football stars.

Clint went back to work with a hot pot of coffee, a chicken sandwich, a limp, and a grin.

ccCcc

The SHIELD motherfuckers were cutting a percentage of their support to Barney’s long-term care. Clint got the call Friday morning, the facilities manager saying that they’d received notice that morning that the care insurer in charge of footing Barney’s bill had just realized that it had been covering more than the original agreement. She’d wanted to know if Clint could make up the difference, or if they’d need to consider making some changes.

Clint was furious. He crawled out of his vent and into the bathroom and stormed to the lockers for a quick, hot shower. Then he jerked on the one gray suit he’d managed to procure since his car had gone up in smoke. He still had the SHIELD credentials, and a good chunk of his better false ID’s; not wanting to risk them being stolen out of the car when he hadn’t been there, he’d been hiding them at Stark Tower.

The SHIELD ID card still worked. This surprised him, but he took full advantage of it. He strolled into SHIELD like he belonged there, a half-empty cup of coffee in hand and a barely polite look on his face. It was his ‘blending face’ so he didn’t look hostile or particularly noteworthy, as he moved through the elevators and hallways.

He went back up to the same office he’d visited the first time he’d come looking for answers. This time nobody was in there, but the door was unlocked so he expected his host would be back shortly. Or maybe they didn’t lock doors in this place? Everyone was supposed to be trust-worthy after all.

Clint slid into the chair behind the desk and took in his surroundings. There was a picture of a couple who must have been the agent’s parents on their wedding day, and a picture of a wrinkly faced dog. After slipping on his gloves, he plucked both images out of the frames, noting the wedding date written on the back and a name and date on the back of the dog photograph. He put them back into place and activated the computer. It took two tries to get the password, and it took rummaging through four files to find the ones he wanted. He pulled up Barney’s.

Signed, stamped, approved. Clint didn’t have much use for paperwork, but he understood how it worked, and its importance in certain circles. This pile of garbage deducting Barney’s hazard care pay looked legitimate and had been sent to multiple parties, so there was no changing it now. Clint bared his teeth at it. This asshole must have realized Barney had been moved to a better facility and, for some reason, decided to cut funding. Clint would really like to run into him on the street, share his opinion on the matter, personally. Expressing his opinion in the center of SHIELD’s New York office, however, would most likely not end well for Clint. And possibly worse for Barney.

He logged out of the computer, set the desk to rights, and stalked out of the room with his cold coffee and colder scowl. This fucking agency. They didn’t even take care of their own. Weren’t they supposed to have a code of ethics about this stuff? Wasn’t that the type of thing they were proud of? Clint took deep breaths to keep his calm, and then rounded the corner to the elevators and of-fucking-course Agent Phil Coulson was standing there. Of course, he was. Where else would he be? Hanging out with Romanov somewhere else? Nah, too convenient.

He glanced over as Clint approached, and the recognition was clear, which made Clint’s gut squirm with unease. Would he remember him from the elevator at Starks?

“Agent Bailey,” the guy greeted cordially. He even remembered his name. Fantastic.

“Sir,” Clint greeted and the elevator doors opened. They both stepped on, a comfortable two feet of space between them as they put their backs to the wall and faced forward. There was nobody else in the car, no music, and Coulson wasn’t distracted by anything this time: no phone or tablet or coffee or assistant. Clint took a sip of his own cold brew as Coulson looked at him with a polite quirk of the lips.

“How are things?” he asked. Was this guy for real? Clint was immediately suspicious. Shit, he was probably going to have to fight his way out of here.

“Fine, Sir.” He looked directly at Coulson as he answered in a feigned attempt at politeness, instead of watching him through the elevator mirrors like he would prefer to. The charade was harder than it should have been, since he kind of just wanted to punch something and couldn’t. 

“Got everything sorted out with your benefits then?”

“Yes Sir,” Clint agreed.

“Glad to hear it. Agent Armstrong has a reputation for being a bit finicky.” Coulson made a little show of looking at his watch before dropping his arms to hang loosely in front of him, one hand gently gripping the wrist of the other. Casual as fuck. This guy!

“Agent Armstrong?” Clint affected his best ‘I’m confused but trying not to show it or be rude’ face, and sort of looked at Coulson out of the corner of his eye. “Sorry, Sir, I’m not familiar with them. Agent Houghton is the one that helped me.”

“Ah yes, of course,” Coulson agreed, affecting a slightly abashed look that Clint didn’t buy for a second. Clint didn’t know how to read this man nearly well enough, but he was absolutely certain Coulson was checking Clint knew his basic facts, such as the name of the agent he’d supposedly gone to see. What Clint didn’t know was if Coulson was suspicious of him specifically, or just had the natural tendency to randomly test all of his non-familiar agents at any given moment? If it was the latter then it was annoying and competent and Clint did not like it.

He could respect it.

“I’m not overly familiar with Agent Houghton.” Coulson was apparently uninterested in remaining silent during the ride. Clint just nodded and took another sip of his coffee. “What department were you in again?” Coulson asked with polite curiosity.

“Motor pool, Sir,” he offered as blandly as he could, which seemed to amuse the guy for some reason. They stopped at the third floor just as the agent’s phone went off. The elevator opened and three people began to step on, when Coulson held up his hand to halt their progress.

“Apologies, but it looks like I’m going to be confiscating this elevator.” He pulled a card from his charcoal suit pocket and held it against the scanner beside the control panel. The three attempting to enter backed out, one with a grumpy scowl as he struggled with a teetering stack of oddly shaped boxes. Clint didn’t need to be told twice, he stepped out of the car and positioned himself to wait for the next one going down. He looked up just as the doors were sliding shut. Coulson was watching him, and he nodded politely when their eyes met. Clint nodded back and then the doors sealed and the elevator began a rapid ascent.

Fuck.

“Who the hell was that guy that thinks he can just claim an elevator to himself?” the guy with the boxes grumped. The woman next to him reached up and helped stabilize the precarious stack, but didn’t offer to help carry them.

“That was Coulson,” the other guy answered with a tone that clearly implied it was obvious, and the box guy was an idiot for asking.

“Oh,” Box Guy said, and went quiet.  
Clint was pissed off and really wanted to steal some shit from these agents. But there was being pissed off and there was being stupid and drawing more attention to yourself. He didn’t need the heat of a possible second investigation into missing weapons.

Coulson hadn’t even looked closely at the nearly healed bruising and cut on Clint’s face, which meant of course he’d noticed. It was probably the entire reason for the subtle inquisition. Clint was on the guy’s radar now, even if it was just in passing. It was dangerous. If Coulson spotted him at the tower after this Clint’s time there would be done. He’d have to keep a higher vigilance for the next while. 

Clint also needed more money.

Fuck SHIELD anyway. And fuck Barney too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Life! It apparently happens everyday. Who knew. Apologies for the delay in posting. Good news is edits are coming along (thank you Teeelsie for fixing the grammar things that go on and on) and I hope to have the rest of the story posted very soon! (hopefully within a week). 
> 
> Hope you are all well.


	7. Dik Moxy

The woman who kept calling Clint finally agreed to speak to him in lieu of his ‘boss.’ Most likely because after months of putting her off, she realized she needed to follow his rules if she actually wanted to hire him, and she needed him soon. She was an absolute ass, but once she got down to business she was straight up about her employer’s expectations and that they would wire a small advance to an account of his choosing. The job was good money. It would be a good nest egg for Barney’s payments, and Clint would have enough left over to buy another shitty car, or maybe get started on upgrading body armour and gear.

He accepted the gig, and then convinced Long to give him the Monday through Thursday off so he’d have time to get to L.A. and pick up his one remaining uniform and small stash of cash. Then it was off to Canada with an illegitimate passport.

He felt antsy the entire way there, and it had nothing to do with the anticipation of getting through customs.

ccCcc

“So,” Tony Stark said as he and Phil Coulson dangled back-to-back by their wrists in some damp underground facility with a whole lot of multi-coloured pipes. They were hanging from one of said pipes which sat high above their heads, the rope strung long to reach down to them. Their feet barely touched the ground, and one ankle each was chained from below so no fancy acrobatics could get them out of this. “This is awkward.” His voice was strained from the pressure on his chest, and his shoulders were already burning numb from hanging too long. He tried twisting around to get a better look at their surroundings, but close up all he saw were more vertical pipes, darkness hiding what was beyond. The area they were in was lit with some strategically placed spotlights, because apparently using the built-in overhead lights would have made the space too bright or something. His back bumped Coulson’s in his struggle.

“I have to admit, you were not the one I was hoping to leave the party with,” Phil agreed mildly.

“Oh, come on, I thought we’d moved beyond our differences. Why you gotta be so cold.” Tony tried to twist the other way while Coulson remained still. He wondered if the guy was more injured than he let on, but most likely he just had more patience in these types of situations. Tony tried to look back the other way again but didn’t get any further than seeing the back of Agent’s shoulder. Coulson had had a few more moments to resist capture than Tony, who’d been stunned with a taser and then had his wrists bound before he could call for the portable suit. The Agent had gotten a few good moves in, but surprise and power had been on the abductors’ side and he’d ultimately succumbed to a taser bite of his own.

“All in the name of diplomacy,” Coulson said flippantly, and Tony snorted. They’d been at the Metro Toronto Convention Center. Toronto. Canada. Shit like this wasn’t supposed to happen up here, and it was a conference on global warming for crying out loud. Tony had gone to help promote self-sustaining energy sources and get a feel for where it could be best utilized. Coulson was there for SHIELD purposes as yet undisclosed. Speaking of which—

“Hey, are they after you or me in this scenario, because I honestly have no clue right now. Also, what happened to our bodyguards?”

“Well,” Phil said mildly, “I would hope they’re either searching for us this moment, or at the very least still alive.”

Okay, so Tony had only gone with his regular Brioni suit for protection, because seriously: global warming conference in Toronto. Pepper had told him to take Happy, or Bruce, or anyone on the team with him but he’d honestly thought everything would run smoothly. He was aware Phil had maybe three agents with him on comms, but probably no more than that. It wasn’t like either of them had announced to the world they’d be attending the conference, but it hadn’t exactly been a secret.

“So, we probably need to consider a better protection plan in the future, because Pepper is never going to let me live this down.”

“I wish I didn’t have to agree, but I feel like this is a bit of a new low,” Phil hummed thoughtfully, not sounding the least put out. Tony’s wrists were aching sharply and his arms were moving from burning to numb. His shoulders really didn’t like this position.

“I wouldn’t feel too badly about it, we are professionals after all,” a voice announced from somewhere behind the pipes, deep and resonating and—

“I don’t recognize the voice, do you?” Tony mock whispered over his shoulder to Phil, the back of their heads bumping with the movement.

“No, I do not,” Phil said softly.

“And you wouldn’t! For we are the shadows that build the dark, the nameless that hide beside you,” the voice explained. 

Tony thought about this, and of course he was worried because frankly everyone was back in New York and while they might know they were missing, that didn’t mean they’d find them quickly. He could feel that the trackers implanted in his shoulder and thigh had been removed while he’d been unconscious. He had his clothes on now but clearly they’d been adjusted without his permission, which was all kinds of skeevy.

“Right,” Tony said after a moment of lingering silence. “And just to check, you know who we are?”

“The one who flies in iron, and the suit who…walks beneath him.” There was a definite pause in the answer so they weren’t sure about Phil. He didn’t know if that was good or not at this point.

“Okay, so maybe you want to let us down so we can discuss what you’re after a bit more comfortably?” Tony tried.

“Fools we are not,” the man scoffed, and finally stepped from behind a pipe. He was dressed from head to toe in some leather-looking getup with lots of belts and embellishments that looked cool and intimidating but didn’t really seem to do anything. His skin was pale beneath a half-face mask, and his lips were painted black. There was a red line running from his bottom lip, down his chin and throat, and disappearing beneath the high collar. He looked like he might be a space ninja. At the way Phil stiffened Tony assumed another similarly dressed person had stepped out on his side, and Phil had recognized them.

“We are the Ascendants,” a different person spoke up, and appeared from the right. Tony noticed movement and looked up to see a third clinging to a pipe above them like a monkey. That one was just staring from behind a full facemask that had big glossy black coverings over their eyes.

“Okay,” Tony agreed. “Good for you, I guess. So, again, what do you want?” Because seriously, they could at least be entertaining with their monologue.

“We were hired to remove your body parts limb by limb, and gift it to our benefactor.” The painted black lips curled up in a realllly creepy grin.

“Okay, so, I’ll triple the asking price to get you to not do that and let us go.”

“The bonds of agreement are our life’s blood, only a fool would break it.”

“So be a rich fool. I am,” Tony argued. The tension was practically radiating off of Phil now, and Tony leaned over and muttered, “What are the chances someone like, say, Natasha, or hell, Mockingbird, is close by?”

“They’re not,” Phil answered bluntly.

“Okay. Delightful. Because I think these pipes are filled with water, and that combined with the pipes themselves are going to make it pretty damn difficult to find us here quickly if people are relying on surface scans.”

“Yes,” the man who apparently had bat-like hearing, boomed in agreement, and then he pulled out a freaking Bat’leth from off his back and began walking forward with a no-nonsense gate. “And there are many tanks of water above that shall also help muffle your screams,” he agreed.

“Believe it or not,” a new voice said, “the truth he speaks.” 

The Ascendant Tony could see paused, and his lips pulled down unhappily. “You are not to be here. You were hired as a protector to the Benefactor. Your duty does not end until they are leaving this continent.”

“Yeah.” The new-voice guy stepped out from the shadows, and the Ascendants clearly hadn’t known where he might be coming from as they turned to face him. “The Benefactor is fine. Problem is I’m not too fond of this plan of action. It wasn’t mentioned in the hiring package.”

“It is not your place to be involved here. Return to your task,” the deep voice boomed, but if Tony was hearing his tone correctly, the lead Ascendent was more cautious now, and clearly not a fan of the turn of events.

“Ronin,” Phil said, so softly Tony almost didn’t hear, but he did, and wisely did not say ‘the guy you and Natasha have been searching for, for years?!’ Tony twisted enough to get the newcomer in his sights and looked him over. He was dressed head to toe in a funky black get up, fancy shinguards covering up to his knees, and gold highlighting the edges of the outfit. He had some kind of weapons holstered at both hips, and—

“Is that a gold sash around your waist? For real?” he asked. The guy tilted his head at Tony, conveying everything he thought about that outburst and Tony pressed his lips together before he could interrupt again. Probably best to not deliberately draw attention to he and Phil just then.

“You know,” Ronin said, turning back to the one with the Bat’leth, and Tony paid closer attention to the tone, because he sounded oddly familiar, “I am getting really bored with people telling me what my place is.”

“You are to-”

“You and the Benefactor,” his tone mocked the name and Tony couldn’t help his lips twitching, “were made aware that I don’t accept jobs without knowing everything about it. You seem to have left a few pertinent details out.”

“Details are not your purview.” The Ascendant in charge was growling now, and tensing up. Ronin seemed perfectly comfortable as he slowly walked forward. Phil was finally moving around, trying to get a full look at the situation.

“They are when I say they are,” Ronin disagreed, a British lilt colouring his tongue a moment, “and I said they were. I do not like to be misled.” He took another step closer to Tony and Phil, probably looking them over, though it was hard to see where his eyes were actually focused beneath all the face hugging black.

The Ascendants shifted their grips on their weapons, but their focus was no longer on slicing up Tony and Phil into meatpacker-sized bits, which was good. Sort of.

“You would break your oath to your work?” the Ascendant snapped with anger.

“Far as I’m concerned, you broke contract first, and yeah,” Ronin cocked his head just enough to appear contemplative, “this is probably going to really fuck up my street cred.” The faint British accent had bled back to a Midwestern drawl. “But,” he continued, “I am not a psychotic ninja-cult hell bent on finding a worthy master, so oaths aren’t really something I make. How about I make you a deal though: walk away now, no harm no foul, or, you know, don’t.” His last words sent a shiver of warning down Tony’s spine. It tingled.

“You will regret the day you turned against the Ascendants,” the cult-ninja hissed.

“Probably not,” Ronin disagreed, and then before he really knew to expect it, they erupted into a fight so quickly Tony jerked back in surprise, knocking hard into Phil. Ronin had pulled two swords from his back, and was swinging swiftly with one while he launched the other at Tony, or he launched it past Tony and Phil, coming so close to Tony’s armpit he could feel the material of his suit jacket move. The sword impaled somebody Tony couldn’t see. He assumed they’d been about to attack Phil.

It was absolutely awful being stuck in the middle of a full-on ninja battle and not be able to even duck out of the way. Tony lost track of Ronin several times as he spun about the place, drawing the hidden assassins out of the pipes, stepping in the way just in time to deflect killing blows at Tony or Phil. One of the Ascendant’s swords had come after Tony from the side, so close to his neck that Tony had an instant ringing in his ear from the clash of metal as it was forcibly halted by Ronin, inches from his skin.

Ronin did not talk while he fought, but he was pretty damn busy so that might not be the norm. Tony felt Coulson move sharply behind him and figured he must have kicked someone as they fought Ronin. He did not miss when Ronin threw away his second sword, impaling a dark figure slipping from the pipes on Tony’s left that had ninja stars in hand and was clearly ready to deploy them at he and Phil. The gleaming metal stars clattered to the ground as the ninja did, but Ronin sacrificed a block to make that killing move and wasn’t able to fully pull away from a fiercely swinging blade. A deep slice carved over his upper left arm as he did a one handed back-spring out of the line of reach.

“Now you will die,” the last Ascendant standing—the leader—growled, “a fool.”

Ronin pulled a weapon from the right holster on his waist, and—

“Nunchucks! Seriously?” Tony hissed. Ronin dropped one end of glistening black baton to dangle from the equally black chain.

“Oh screw this,” the Ascendant snarled, and drew a gun. He aimed and fired, and Tony flinched but…but the Ascendant was the one falling with a bullet through his throat. It was an awful gaping wound as he went down choking. After a moment he stilled.

“Did you just deflect the bullet back at him with your nunchucks?” Tony demanded, because there was no way this guy was fast enough—

“He had tells as big as your ego,” Ronin said, re-holstering the weapon and looking at his arm briefly, like he was casually checking that it was still attached before he moved on. Someone had gotten a near hit on his head: scruffs of dark blond hair peaked out from the small tear above his ear area. “And he was better with his blade.” Like that made it obviously easy to deflect a bullet like it was an 84-mile-an-hour fastball right over the plate.

There were eight bodies lying in various states of dead all around them. Ronin turned and began walking away.

“Ronin,” Phil called out, calm and confident. “She went back,” he said, and what? Tony was so confused. Ronin paused from wiping the blood off his second sword on a dead ninja’s pants.

“Does that really make a difference in your mind?” he asked.

“She’s never revealed your physical identity and has been searching for you,” Phil said. “So have I.”

“I’m aware,” the guy said, voice rough, and then he was moving past the pipes and—

“Hey, you could at least cut the rope,” Tony yelled after him. Phil actually sighed in disappointment at Tony’s back. He looked around at all the blood and death. “That guy is seriously dangerous,” he decided. “Glad he’s never been hired to come after me.” Then he thought about what he’d said earlier. “Well, willingly at least.”

“Rumour has it he turned down a contract on you three years ago,” Phil said. Tony pondered that and decided it was a good thing, probably.

“He sounded familiar to me,” he said. “I’ve heard that sarcastic tone before,” he tried to think on it, because it was so close, but there had been couple of hints of accent thrown into some words, so he had no idea on the guy’s nationality. He’d been to so many functions the last two months it could have been anyone.

“Yes,” he could hear the frown in Phil’s voice without needing to see the guys face, “he did sound familiar.”

cCc

When Clint finally made it back to New York (only a few hours after Stark and Coulson) his first stop was Barney’s place. The nurse, Lea, wasn’t working so he ferreted out her supply of suture material. He figured since most of his measly earnings were going into this place, he could get something for himself out of it as well. He didn’t bother to check on Barney, just grabbed his loot and left as quietly as he could manage.

He took a taxi and had it drop him off three blocks from the Tower. God, he was exhausted, and seriously screwed. Sure, he’d kept the Benefactor safe, which had been the job he’d been hired for, but then he’d taken out all of the other hired help during said job, so…his street cred was probably fucked as far as hiring’s in the underworld went, and he could kiss the rest of his payment for the job goodbye. He’d spent most of the small down payment on travel expenses and a new set of hearing aids, because having good back-ups made him sleep easier at night. So, the job had been a bust on top of a clusterfuck.

The cut on his arm freaking sucked. He should have spotted the chick with the throwing-stars sooner. He simmered in irritation over this as he got on the elevator and jabbed the button for the sixth floor. If he’d been that sloppy around Duquesne or Chisholm when he was younger, he would have been given a second parallel slice as punishment. Fortunately he wasn’t with them anymore, and the first cut was punishment enough.

He decided, as he stood in the middle of the empty elevator, that he was glad the Ascendants had been more of the religiously-clean-your-weapon types as opposed to poison-the-blade killers. Still, he was pretty damn lucky to get out of that fight with just bruises and the one cut, because those assholes had a really tough rep and the fight had almost been too much for him. 

When Clint had figured out what the Benefactor was actually doing at the conference, and what he was having done in the basement of the aquarium next to it, he just couldn’t ignore it. He probably should have ignored it, but he couldn’t.

He supposed he’d been motivated because Stark was signing Clint’s pay cheques. Sort of. And he’d actually been amusing the few times they’d met. Mostly, Clint remembered him offering to step in and help out when he’d seen Clint’s bruising that one time. He wasn’t going to lie to himself and deny that he still didn’t know what to think about that offer. Who does that?

And SHIELD could crawl into a hole for all he cared, but Coulson didn’t seem that bad, so it would have been rude to let him get chopped up just for being with Stark at the time of the abduction.

Clint stepped from the elevator and walked tall and easy onto the employee floor, past all the couches and games, and weaved through the tables to the kitchen. He had his priorities, and so he bee-lined it for his coffee machine and slumped over the nearest table once it was percolating. He pillowed his head on his uninjured arm and watched the coffee brew from ten feet away. He started counting the drips to stay awake.

The elevator door binged softly across the way, and Clint shifted his eyes to glance at the microwave’s reflections.

It was Stark, and he’d brought Sam Wilson with him. The Falcon. The guy walked with the easy strut of a competent soldier and gymnast. Clint remembered that strut from the time he’d nearly been caught by Wilson’s wing-troop in Kolkata. He’d just managed to avoid detection then, and that was because of a well-timed, minor, exploding clay statue that had been set up before the festival.

Clint assessed Wilson more carefully now. He’d be good in a fight on the ground, quick and creative; he’d have to be, to be one of the Avengers. But his real skills were aerial and smarts. Clint had been watching him for a while, in splashes caught on news feeds, and because he made it a point to keep an eye on all the dangerous people near him. The guy was an insane flyer. Clint’s underworld connections, the ones who liked to joke about how to steal the Avengers’ tech for fun, said it was rumoured his current suit was designed by the Black Panther’s secret tech-guru and Wilson himself. Clint would love to see the specs for the wings. He could only imagine that vibranium must be involved somehow, and he’d put money on there being solar energy used to charge the wings in flight.

He also bet they were coded to Wilson’s DNA, which was why he’d never seriously contemplated getting his hands on them, even for a quick test flight.

“You know,” Stark spoke up before he was even in the kitchen area, his voice carrying through the wide space devoid of the usual day crowd, “the automatic coffee machine will make you anything you want in seconds.”

“I don’t want it in seconds, I want it in pots,” Clint mumbled into his elbow, keeping a lazy eye on their reflections.

“Can’t fault the logic.” Wilson pulled out a grin, but he seemed tired. Stark looked wired, no doubt still running on the adrenalin and vigilance that sometimes comes after being kidnapped and almost killed…and then not having to expend any energy to get out of the situation. Nope, that had been all Clint.

“If I didn’t know every single other person that uses this space goes straight to my beautiful Brianna, I’d feel hurt you don’t like my coffee goddess.” Stark pet the coffee maker that was the size of a fridge and the interface screen did a little light show Clint had never seen before.

Clint spotted the beginnings of deep bruising around Stark’s wrist before his hoodies sleeve fell back over it.

He grunted, not looking for an argument, or conversation really. He pushed to sit up in the seat and looked at Wilson, and then eyed Stark who was splitting his attention between Clint and his almost full coffee mug.

“Is he your guard or your babysitter?” Clint nodded at Wilson and Stark affected an affronted look.

“Babysitter, definitely,” Sam replied with a grin.

“There was a time when people actually feared me in this building,” Stark sighed. Clint highly doubted anyone with intelligence ever stopped fearing the guy. “This is Sam,” Stark waved at his early morning companion, “Sam, this is Guy I Don’t Know the Name of Yet. There’s got to be an acronym for that,” he muttered as he went to drink his coffee and stick another mug in the machine for Wilson.

“Hey.” Wilson eyed Clint with interest. Great, another one of them paying attention to him, learning his face. Clint had always figured this gig would come crashing down around him as soon as he’d learned where Walter wanted him to work, but he’d kind of hoped he’d last more than six months. At this rate he was bound to bump into Romanov any day, and then he’d be forced to bolt. He wasn’t sure he could win a match against her. At least not up close, and definitely not right now. “You’re the night owl Tony’s mentioned, huh?”

“Are bird references a thing with you?” Clint eyed him judgmentally and was absolutely not smirking on the inside.

“What gave it away?” Wilson asked with a curious look. He held it for a moment before his lips twitched. Great, he was one of those genuinely nice guys.

“I don’t like that you’ve talked about me, it makes me uncomfortable.” Clint decided to ignore the question and glared at Stark, before pushing to his feet to wait closer to his coffee pot. Stark snorted and stepped aside so Wilson could grab his own drink from the machine.

“Don’t be like that, Kid. Kid Grumpy.” Tony apparently didn’t have the concentration for an acronym.

“I think numbers are more your thing, Tony,” Wilson decided dryly, making no move to doctor his drink.

“At least I didn’t go with Dik Moxy, which almost suits him more.” Tony shrugged, but Clint wasn’t really listening to them as he pet his coffee maker on the head and pulled his carafe from its loving embrace. He was watching them, though, because you didn’t turn your attention away from people like these, ever. He spotted Stark’s attentive gaze sharpen into a much more inquisitive look after a sip of espresso. A look that focused on Clint grabbing the pot with his right hand.

Clint, suddenly far more wary than he’d been even with two heavy-hitters encroaching on his personal time, filtered through his file of memories of previous interactions with the guy. He’d always grabbed the pot with his left hand, but it had only been two times before, so it shouldn’t give away anything about him. He was ambidextrous after all.

“I’ll take Dik over Kid,” he muttered, and went to leave, but Stark suddenly stepped far too close. Clint did not retreat or push him back on reflex, but it was a near thing. People didn’t get this close to him without him expecting it, and everything he knew about Stark said the guy had a personal bubble he protected like he protected his suits. “I’d prefer you not know my name so you don’t go to HR to get me fired for not liking your coffee machine.” He forced himself to remain where he was, like this was a game of chicken. 

“Dik,” Tony tutted in disappointment, and reached out to give Clint’s left arm a hard clap, and then kept his hand there and squeezed. 

The son of a bitch. 

“They’re both my coffee makers,” he said in challenge and squeezed harder, right over Clint’s cut. 

September nights could be cold and he was rung out, so Clint had on his leather jacket, a hoodie, and a long-sleeve shirt. The layers masked the bandage on his arm, but didn’t prevent the fire that radiated up and down the limb. It was ten times more painful than actually getting the cut.

Clint had mastered his poker face by the time he’d healed from Duquesne’s graduation gift at fifteen. The skill came in handy now as he rolled his eyes in irritation at the billionaire. “You’re not even allowed on this floor.”

After a moment of intense staring, Stark dropped his hand, shook his head, and backed off.

“Maybe I’ll call you Sunshine, because of those golden locks you keep hidden under the company logo.”

“Whatever configures your emitter array,” Clint muttered, and, cradling his prize, turned his back on them and walked away. He took care to not allow his stiffness and pain to show in his steps, and gave Wilson a little nod on the way past. The nod was returned, but with a frown as the guy was quickly turning his attention back to Stark.

“Kinky.” Stark wassailed after Clint, definitely amused. 

Shit. Clint should probably avoid this floor for a while. He’d have to give it enough time for the guy to lose interest. They seemed to have a knack for bumping into each other, though it shouldn’t actually take long for Stark to forget him considering everything else he had distracting him. Regardless, Clint felt their eyes on him as he walked to the elevator. He reached out with his left arm and pushed the call button. Smooth. Easy. See, it doesn’t hurt at all. He has a fully functioning, completely healthy, arm.

“What was that?” he heard Wilson ask, apparently not concerned with being overheard.

“Dik’s voice was familiar and I was playing an inspirational hunch,” Stark answered easily. “It didn’t pan out.” 

The doors to the elevator closed. Clint went directly to Anton’s floor, finding him finishing up in the accessible bathroom. 

Anton started at his sudden entrance, shook his head when he realized it was Clint, looked him over, and frowned.

“You get jumped on the way over here?” he demanded.

“Something like that,” Clint agreed. Stark had reopened the wound; he could feel the trickle of blood that escaped the bandage. “Still interested in helping out on the downlow?”

“If you’re dying, I’m making you go to the hospital,” Anton said.

“It’s just a few stitches.” Clint glanced at his arm, kind of wishing Lea had been on shift that night. She didn’t make him feel guilty for getting hurt. And what was his life that he had not one, but two medics willing to help him for free? Sometimes he was rolling in luck.

“Like they were just a few bruises last time, hmm?” Anton said with a knowing tone, and then his eyes caught on the coffee pot. “You’re sharing that.” He dug out his travel mug from its customized cup-holder on his cart.

“Fair,” Clint agreed and topped him up. Thirteen stitches and a sterile bandage later, Clint went to the bathroom where he’d originally met Rogers, and pulled himself (less gracefully than usual) into the ceiling through the drop down tile in the corner stall. He crawled to the vent access he’d created, moved into said vent, and shimmied as silently as possible through it. He kept an eye out for potential new security monitors (because you never knew when they’d crop up in this building) and eventually slid belly down out of the vent into his own personal domain. He flopped onto the camping air mattress he’d procured, dragged the unzipped purple and gray sleeping bag over himself, and triggered his little doodad that connected to the door security on the ground level so it would sign him out of the building. He ignored the elevator that sped past only feet away on near silent tracks, falling asleep to the warm, mechanical breeze it left behind.

cCc

“Seriously though.” Sam gave Tony the side eye as he finally managed to manouver him away from the coffee machine before he could get a refill. He nodded at the elevator doors that had closed on the guy who’d been doing his level best to get away from them while not looking like he wanted to be anywhere but in their vicinity. “What was that about?” He moved to sprawl on one of the surprisingly comfortable couches that liberally filled the area and watched as Tony began fiddling with an old school pinball machine.

Tony didn’t answer for a moment, pretending to be distracted as he tested the buttons. Sam didn’t push, because it had been a tough night for the guy. Being kidnapped and nearly murdered without the chance at self-defense would throw anyone into a tailspin, but Tony never dealt with things in a linear way. Iron Man or not, Avenger or not, Tony had been a victim again, and while he waved the experience off like it was nothing, there was no way it hadn’t affected him. Hence the inability to settle down even though he’d been awake for nearly thirty-two hours at this point.

“There’s just something off about that guy,” he finally said, and flung a ball into motion on the game, the machines headboard lighting up and dinging loudly into the previously dead-silent space. “I’ve run into him here a few times, think he works somewhere in R&D.” His shoulders dipped as he leaned into the machine, concentrating on keeping the ball in motion.

“Off, bad?” Sam asked, because Tony had decent instincts about things, at least since he’d been betrayed by his trusted business partner and mentor, Obediah Stain, and begun to really pay attention to people. He’d adopted a distrust with pretty much everyone after that. Hell, it had taken Sam almost a year to gain his full confidence, and they had fought together on a near weekly basis. Tony had still been faster to trust Sam than Steve.

“No,” Tony answered, distractedly. Sam noted the raw skin and bruises that flashed on his wrists as the sweatshirt pulled with his movement. Anger flared with every glimpse, but he kept it in check because there was nothing he could do about it now. Rhodey had been informed and was coming back from overseas in the guise of getting his suit’s monthly inspection completed. Until he got here no one really wanted to leave Tony alone, and Tony hadn’t protested Sam tagging along. They’d come down here to get away from the meeting between Steve and SHIELD that was still trying to figure out exactly what had happened and how the hell the Ronin guy they’d been looking for had suddenly appeared and saved their asses. Again.

Frankly, that put him in Sam’s good books, no matter who he was.

“He’s off because he’s not pandering to me. I appreciate that in an employee,” Tony continued after a moment, and swore when the ball eluded him and disappeared from the machines game board.

“That’s really not a unique trait,” Sam pointed out, thinking about how the guy, who might be twenty, had kept an eye on them the entire time they’d been within line of sight. Tony might not have noticed, but Sam was highly trained, and he’d seen the way they’d been checked out through the reflections in the kitchen appliances.

“In this building it kind of is.” Tony waved him off, and then used the freed hand to slurp coffee from the mug he’d sat on the pinball machine’s glass top. “Some exceptions of course, but they’re not usually found lurking alone on the employee floor at three-thirty in the morning, drinking the building out of its coffee supply.”

“So that’s why you touched him?” Because that was definitely not Tony’s usual modus operandi. Ever. “Looking to make a new friend?”

“What? No.” Tony gifted him a little glare and an eye roll, and he was finally beginning to drop some of the hyper vigilance he’d been wrapped in since the Toronto S.W.A.T. team had cut he and Phil loose from their restraints twelve hours before. “In hindsight this is ridiculous, but for a moment I thought he might be Ronin.”

“Okay,” Sam considered this.

“Stupid, I know, and I will never admit to saying that about one of my ideas, but it was just his voice and the blonde hair, and I thought maybe. Ronin got a nasty cut on his left arm.” Tony flung a ball back into play. “You know SHIELD was actually happy about that? They think he might have left some DNA behind that they can finally trace. First time in years they’ve had that kind of opportunity. Assholes,” he grunted. The pinball got by him and he stomped over to flop on the couch nearest Sam’s. “Though, to be fair, he is a criminal,” he sighed.

“So you thought if you smacked the guy on his injury he would reveal himself as your saviour, as well as one of SHIELD’s most wanted, right here in the break room?”

“Shut up.” Tony rubbed at his eyes, clearly exhausted. “SHIELD thinks Ronin is mid-twenties, but this guy’s probably too young to be Ronin anyway, not with the level of skill needed to take out that band of assassins. Unless he’s enhanced in some way. He moved as fast as Rogers and Romanov. Plus, there’s no way the guy that saved our asses tonight would actually work here. I mean, he knows Romanov is after him, and only a grade-A idiot would put themselves this close to her if he didn’t want to be found.”

“Maybe he does want to be found,” Sam pointed out and was glad to see Tony lose another level of tension as he tiredly contemplated that.

“Nah,” Tony dismissed.

“Why don’t you just have JARVIS tell you who Dik is then? Solve the mystery.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Tony smirked, and looked at Sam with genuine amusement.

“You could tell Natasha to come here with you one night to check,” Sam suggested, but could tell Tony wasn’t interested, clearly done with the theory.

“Sir,” JARVIS interrupted with a soft tone, “Colonel Rhodes has touched down on the landing platform.” Tony’s amusement turned surprised, turned thoughtful, and then he rolled his eyes dramatically and pushed to his feet.

“Bunch of mother hens,” he muttered, but moved to the elevator and Sam gladly followed. With Rhodes in the building Tony might be able to get some sleep. Sam knew it wasn’t personal, sometimes Tony was just too keyed up and having his closest friend nearby helped him relax more than the rest of them could. They’d figure the rest out later. “You find me Ronin’s digits yet, J?” he asked as they rode up and up and up in the car.

“Of course, Sir, I’ve simply neglected to inform you as I knew it was a low priority,” JARVIS said.

“Everyone’s a smartass tonight,” Tony grunted, and calmed further at the familiarity. Sam grinned and enjoyed his cup of very good coffee.

cCc

Clint didn’t sleep long in general. It came with his livelihood, so he wasn’t surprised when he woke up not long after curling up on the air mattress. He stretched and scratched his belly, mouth pulled wide in a yawn that practically dislocated his jaw. He cracked his eyes open and stared at the ceiling above him where he’d sloppily taped some rough sketches of his latest arrow designs, the blueprints to the SHIELD headquarters being built in Washington (because fuck you, SHIELD), and a picture of broccoli to remind himself to eat vegetables. He glanced around the small space, and suddenly he was okay with being awake despite his lingering exhaustion. He remembered that in a few hours he could take another nap if he wanted to and waking up in his little elevator hotel was kind of awesome, if a bit drafty. It had been a long time since he’d had a place this secure to squat in.

His blood still thrummed from the fight in Toronto, exposure to Stark and Coulson, and the subsequent travel back to New York. He rolled clumsily out of bed and did a few quick, basic stretches, ignoring the throbbing ache in his arm (fuck you, Stark). He decided he wouldn’t be leaving this space for a while yet. To distract himself he flipped on his battery powered camping light to aid the dim wall sconce that was always on, and settled cross-legged at his squat, makeshift table. It was pressed against the wall beside his bed, and the table legs on the right side were only inches away from the elevator shafts edge. After checking they were still safely positioned, he began to contentedly fiddle with his arrows. Intermittently, he pecked away at some coding on the Starkpad he’d ‘borrowed’ and disconnected from all building systems, avoiding the laptop Long had gifted him for these untoward activities. He’d seen some of the plans for upgraded jets on the floor he was currently assigned to, and for fun he was trying to figure out how to reroute part of the security system to zap any hostiles who touched the plane from the outside. He’d also been staring at the plans to determine the best place to hide some stink bombs, because as far as he was concerned SHIELD had earned them. He grinned darkly at the thought as he stared at the taser arrow in his hand and considered how he could allow for current adjustment by twisting the shaft before firing. Different targets required different strengths of attack, and if he could get this right and manage to balance it, this arrow would be fucking awesome. He couldn’t use the fabrication tools in Stark’s Tower for the build, but he was sure he could get free access to some in Virginia when he was ready.

His cell phone vibrated where it was sitting on the thin camping mattress by his hip. He eyed it. He wasn’t sure, after his whole ‘turning on his employer’ bid, that he wanted to know who was trying to get a hold of him, especially so soon after that farce of a job. Then again, he wasn’t sure he could avoid calls right now, because work was work and he knew it wouldn’t be coming in so often anymore. He’d have to make a special trip to some contacts and spread the word that the Benefactor had mislead him first, reneging on their contract before Clint had turned on him. It might save him some jobs, but he wasn’t overly hopeful.

He snagged one of the hearing aids resting on the table’s corner by his mattress and shoved it into his left ear as he plucked the phone up. He activated the speaker option and laid it on the table so he could continue to examine the very fine prongs at the tip of his taser-arrow. They were just long enough to latch onto a person without imbedding the whole arrow into their body. Good.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Ronin! Buddy, do you know—” Clint did not know, and he never would, because he’d swiftly dropped his phone to the floor and jammed the taser-arrow in his hand into it the moment he realized Tony fucking Stark on the other end of the line. Sparks flew, the screen cracked, and the phone instantly died, along with Clint’s contentedness. He swiftly smashed the phone with the small hammer he had, bashing the casing apart, and for good measure, after removing the battery, he dropped all the pieces in the tiny canister of acid he’d lifted from the labs two weeks before. The special, custom acid they kept on hand to dissolve certain non-reactive materials Stark industries wanted to throw away but didn’t want their competitors or enemies to get. Like miniature drones, nanotech, pens that could fire tranq-darts, or the GPS tracking devices active in their cellphones. The canister was a customized thick glass designed for the acid, and the phone broke down so quickly once inside that in a minute it was nothing but a fine grit sitting on the bottom.

Clint had taken the acid to pour into specialized, hollow, glass-blown arrow heads, but he hadn’t had a chance to actually put them together yet. He’d have to look into whether or not the acid would remain effective now that it had been “contaminated.”

“Awww, phone,” he muttered as he snapped the heavy glass lid into place, and pulaced the canister back in the far corner of his space, where it had the least chance of accidentally falling off the ledge and onto an elevator. Shit, Clint only had one burn phone left, and he’d have to leave the building to contact his source in Norway to get the new number out.

You save Stark and SHIELD’s ass and this was the thanks you get: harassment and property damage. And his new taser-arrow was toast. Great. He only had enough material to make one more now.

And his arm was fucking throbbing. 

Stark was a dick.

Clint shoved his second aid in his ear, dug out his last burn phone, plugged it in to the maintenance outlet to charge, pulled out his katanas for easy access, pulled on his gloves because they were good in a retreat, and contemplated stringing his recurve before just putting his arrows within easy reach. Then he sat back and waited. If Stark managed to trace the cell location in those three seconds, then Clint would probably be seeing the guy within the minute. He’d be too restricted in the ventilation shafts to fight easily, and the chances of getting out of the building if they knew he was here were greatly limited. If Stark showed up, Clint would have to damage and distract enough to get away, but he wouldn’t buy trouble until it arrived on his cement ledge.

He breathed in deeply, and breathed out slowly, and tried to pretend that it didn’t always feel like he was one step away from everything tumbling down around him.

He waited. At the ten-minute mark he relaxed. At the twenty-minute mark he knew he’d managed to kill the signal before his cell could be traced. He wouldn’t answer it in this place again though, because he, well, he kind of liked his little abode. It was cozy.

The elevator went flying past, the breeze hot and stinking of used oil from the tracks, but it was mostly quiet.

Clint closed his eyes and allowed an exhale of relief.

cCc

“Well.” Tony frowned at the phone and then at the kitchen at large, where Rhodes, Steve, Bruce, Sam, and Natasha were in various states of lurking. “He hung up on me.”

“It would appear he did more than that, Sir,” JARVIS joined the conversation. “By the swiftness of response and sound bytes analyzed I would surmise that an electrical current was used to disrupt all signals to the phone. I was unable to get a trace.”

“Told you it wouldn’t work,” Natasha said lightly, as she poured herself a glass of orange juice from the fridge.

“And yet you stuck around to watch,” Tony pointed out, and was met with a look that clearly stated she’d stuck around to enjoy his failure. He rolled his eyes. “Guess there’s no point in calling him back then. JARVIS, keep your eyes out for new contact information.”

“He won’t thank you if you keep forcing him to kill his phones,” Natasha said.

“Then he can come and not thank me in person,” Tony decided, “and I can give him a new one. Seriously, how is this guy so tough to find? It’s like searching for Barnes all over again.”

“You sure you want to actually find him?” Rhodey asked from where he was sitting with his military posture at the kitchen’s large island. He was next to Steve, who sat with an equally straight back, and they were both looking over the paper file Natasha had brought back from her morning meeting at SHIELD. Paper on his table. Tony glared at it on principal before making eye contact with his bestie.

“Sure. I owe the guy at least a few beers.”

“His file reads like a comic book villian,” Rhodes pointed out.

“And yet SHIELD still wants him, badly. Makes me wonder what it’s leaving out,” Tony said. 

Bruce, who was on the stool beside the straight-backed men but hunched over and pillowing his head on his arms, shifted. “That assassination in Brazil…he was a government official who was using his connections in office to kidnap children and young woman and ship them to Russia.”

They all looked at him.

“What? I lived in Brazil for a while, still have connections there. One of the kidnapped was a friend’s, friend’s, sister. Nobody was sad when that guy fell off the roof of his mansion.”

“Yeah,” Rhodes snorted, “after he was shot by a bullet from one of his bodyguards. According to the cop they’d been torturing on the roof, the bodyguard was aiming at Ronin, but the guy deflected the bullet with his sword. That is not an actual thing,” he decided.

Natasha drank her orange juice.

Sam read her look easily and moved to read over Steve’s shoulder. “It’s an actual thing. The cop was the only one left alive at the scene.”

“So, he’s a killer with a code,” Tony said, “and he also deflected a bullet with a nunchuck. He’ll fit right in.”

“Have to find him first,” Bruce said.

“He’s been popping up around here pretty frequently,” Steve pointed out, eyes still frowning at the file. “We could dedicate a spotter to make contact during our next local call out.”

“I vote not Natasha,” Tony said, and she quirked an eyebrow at him. “What? He clearly likes you least.” She seemed to consider this and shrugged.

“It says here he shot someone through the heart with an ice bullet,” Rhodes said.

“It was actually an ice arrow,” Natasha pointed out. “Last year. The lab techs couldn’t replicate an ice arrow that didn’t fall apart when loosed, so they decided it must have been a bullet. They were wrong.”

“But, why?” Rhodey asked because it wasn’t in the file. Tony knew this because he’d read this file already, or at least the electronic version. “Seems like a waste of effort when a normal arrow would do the job.”

Natasha smiled sharply.

“The arrow was made from contaminated water that the victim had been dumping chemicals into for years. She poisoned the wells of two towns with enough toxins that it killed approximately twenty percent of the residents before people recognized they were getting sick from the water. They’d assumed the water filtration plants would be keeping it clean for them. She laughed at them when they showed her pictures of their dead.”

“Aren’t you a wealth of information.” Tony was intrigued. “You must really want this guy.”

“I owe him a debt,” she said easily, and none of them had any doubts that easy was far from the truth, “and the ice-arrow was a pro-bono job.” She put her glass in the dishwasher and left the kitchen.

“If that’s a big deal in the world of black-market killers, then he saved you pro-bono as well,” Bruce told Tony. “And you just made him kill his phone.” Tony couldn’t see Bruce’s face as it was half hidden by his arms, but he knew the guy was grinning.

“Still want to recruit him?” Rhodey asked, amused.

“Sure.” ”Give him a try.” ”Yes.” “Maybe he knows how to cook.” Came four overlapping answers and Rhodes, who wasn’t an official member of the team because of his allegiance to the Airforce but still joined them whenever he could lend a hand, just rolled his eyes.

Now, they just had to figure out where he was hiding in New York (if he had even come back this way after the thing in Toronto), and then they had to be more enticing than a life of crime, intrigue, and anonymity. Might be a tough sell, because Tony could see certain appeals to giving the finger to general authority to follow your own code, but he thought they could probably manage it. They just had to approach from the right angle.


	8. Expecting Someone Else

cCc

It had been a long couple of days, but things were settling down enough that Phil felt like he could catch a full breath. Or, at least, he could catch as much of one as his aching ribs allowed after being suspended from his arms. It helped too that he’d caught up on some sleep the night before (at Fury’s order).

“Sir, the results of the DNA samples have come in,” Dr. Ramirez announced as she stepped through the open door of his office. “Hope the overtime was worth it,” she gave a quick smile as she handed over the data stick. Considering the amount of blood that had been left after the incident in the basement of Toronto’s aquarium, he was surprised they’d finished so soon. Honestly, despite their state of the art analysis lab, this was a fast turnaround.

“Thank you,” he offered sincerely as he accepted the data just as his cell phone rang. It was Sitwell. He pressed the phone to his ear.

“We have a situation in Las Vegas. Mass neurotoxin threat and a buffalo running around with a laser attached to its head. The Avengers were informed directly and launched in the quinjet four minutes ago. ETA three hours seven minutes. Captain Rogers reported that Iron Man will be remaining at the Tower to complete his mandatory seventy-two hour stand down after your abduction.”

Phil would have to see if JARVIS would show him a video of how that particular conversation went, after this latest mess was cleaned up.

“Alert the field office, prep Jet Four, and put teams Charlie and Hotel on it. I want to launch in five.”

“Already done.” Sitwell drawled and Coulson hung up on him.

Jet Four was for hazmat deployment. Here’s hoping they didn’t need it, and if they did, here’s hoping it would be later rather than sooner.

cCc

Clint, slouched on a park bench across the road from the Tower, watched as the Avengers’ plane launched from on high and quickly disappeared over the surrounding towering buildings. He was not the only one who craned his head to the sky at the show; the window-washers working at the fifty-second floor watched it intently as it flew over their heads. The two men shared a look after it passed and went back to work. They were doing a shit job: their squeegees missed and left three different streaks on one window.

Clint glared at the streaks and wondered idly what the team was flying off to conquer this time. Seeing as he couldn’t miss a shift and follow them after all the time he’d just taken off for the damned Toronto gig, he didn’t wonder too hard. Instead he lounged on the bench, soaking up the last rays of sun after a day spent fluctuating between high alert for Avengers finding his hidey-hole, and sleeping off the tired numbness of the fight with the ninja party. He wasn’t numb anymore, his body ached like, well, badly. He lounged for a good thirty minutes on the bench, hoping the sun’s heat would soothe some of the lingering aches, but after a while the lack of movement just made him stiffer.

With a sigh, he crumpled the napkin from the street-dog he’d just eaten, and tossed it over his shoulder where he knew a metal public garbage sat. His body was annoyingly sore and his arm a throbbing heat because he was apparently incapable of keeping it still, but he pushed himself up smoothly from the bench and headed back to the Tower. People gave him a fairly wide berth as he walked, which was about a foot of space on either side, until he made it into the building. This was why he liked to change into the custodial uniform before he went out to grab a quick, cheap meal on the busy streets. Without it at least three people would have bumped into him and he was not in the mood for that.

Clearing security and getting onto an elevator with too many people, he contemplated getting straight to work, but he was exhausted and he ached. He hadn’t gotten much rest after Stark’s call, too paranoid his cover was broken, and frankly he just wanted to curl up somewhere and ignore the world for a few hours. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been paid for his last job on account of “interfering with business,” so he was back to juggling on street corners for food money until his next paycheck came in. 

They stopped on the fourth floor and a group of men in suits got off en-mass. Clint eyed them. They must be secret security with the way they moved, which wasn’t surprising considering Stark had been kidnapped the day before. This had happened two months earlier when a threat on Stark and Bruce had been issued. Clint should see if being security here paid better. Would they do a more invasive background search for that role in the company? Probably.

Maybe he’d hustle at a bar the next night he had off as well, but that wasn’t for five more days so…so coffee it was. He got off on the sixth floor with two other people and bee-lined it for the kitchen, only to find that Tony Fucking Stark was there, along with five other people fluttering around him for attention.

Clint considered turning around, but the guy had seen him, and now it was a matter of pride that he didn’t run away. Stark would take that as some kind of territorial victory, or it would make him curious, and Clint’s caffeine intake would be delayed. All unacceptable outcomes. He wished he’d packed a proper freaking weapon now though, just in case. Unfortunately, katanas and a bow were too conspicuous to walk through security with, and Clint had been hungry, so he’d made do with a tiny ceramic throwing knife in his boot and figured it would be enough.

“Dik!” Stark grinned wide at him as he entered the kitchens domain, and the people still hovering around him were clearly disgruntled to lose Stark’s attention. They turned to see who their boss was addressing so cheerfully. “Come here often?” He smirked. Apparently, Clint sucked at keeping low profiles in this place. It was so much easier when he could wear a mask to work.

Clint considered not responding, but in front of so many people that would be too noticeable, and if he really pissed off Stark he could be out on his ass sooner than necessary. Damn it. He just wanted coffee.

“Mr. Stark,” Clint settled on, and squeezed past the group to his coffee machine. He started setting it up, making sure to block visuals from those around him in case they remembered how this kind of machine worked and decided to start using it instead of the instant wonder-machine. This machine was his.

“Seriously? That’s it? We meet during regular work hours for the first time and I can’t even get a Tony out of you?” The genius pressed a hand to his chest and pretended to be heartbroken. The asshole had clearly grown disinterested in his crowd, and Clint knew it. This wasn’t the kind of showboating he was a fan of. He should have sucked it up and made his coffee after the dinner crowd had gone home. Dummy.

Clint turned and gave him an unimpressed look. The small crowd around Tony was looking back and forth between them, clearly starved for entertainment.

“Wouldn’t want to give them the wrong impression, Sir.” He turned back to his coffee, very carefully watching the group in the surface reflections all around him. Stark was rolling his eyes dramatically. He had one hell of a shiner and his posture was stiff, no doubt from being strung up with most of his body weight hanging from his arms. Clint knew that feeling from training on the trapeze in his youth, though he’d been able to use his muscles for the most part during those activities, which had allowed for some relief.

“Like that matters,” Stark waved off, and, okay, maybe it was a bit nice to have the super-rich, super-smart, super-annoying Avenger apparently care more about Clint than the group of people standing around him at the moment. Then again, Stark was clearly bored of them.

“Might damage my reputation to be seen consorting with you,” Clint muttered as he poured the water into the coffee machine and stuck the carafe in its home. He should leave and pretend he planned to come back for it. Stark didn’t seem to hear him or didn’t care about what he said as he was looking him over in amusement.

“Looks like you’re geared up to build something today. What are you working on? The hybrid engines on eighteen, the water reclamation filtration systems on forty-seven?” the guy hedged, and Clint very carefully did not stiffen as Stark misinterpreted his clothes for a mechanic. A highly amused snort erupted from the crowd and in a reflection, Clint could see the superior flash of teeth in that fuckwit, Gerry. He’d been pretending the junior scientist hadn’t been there. So much for that.

“This guy? An engineer? Yeah, no.” Gerry paused a second, almost hesitant, before he pushed forward with the arrogant confidence Clint had been ignoring for weeks. “This guy’s just a custodian, Tony. He cleans up so we can get the real work done.”

The pissant’s words really shouldn’t bother him, because Clint had literally dealt with exponentially worse the majority of his youth and teenage years, and he was well aware that he wasn’t just anything. But being talked down about like that, in front of a person he maybe sort of liked and almost respected? By a guy he literally hadn’t given two thoughts to outside of steering clear when working his floor, so he didn’t break him? This petty bullshit felt like a direct hit.

It was fucking embarrassing.

Clint kind of wanted to put the guy in his place. But here? Now? Fuck, Stark had already been suspicious of him when he’d seen him in the early hours that morning, smacking his cut like he’d actually made a connection between Clint and Ronin. Which was a pretty unbelievable leap, because Clint put effort into maintaining this facade. No, Clint couldn’t do a damned thing here as it would put more attention on him than he’d already earned. For now, Clint kept quiet, making like none of this bothered him in the least. Oh, but he was going to come back to Gerry in the future and give him a real impression on why he should have stayed the hell out of Clint’s business. Clint was pissed. 

First the phone call to his work cell from Stark, and now this confrontation, not to mention being a known face to four Avengers and that Coulson guy. He’d always known his time here had been finite, but he’d hoped to get a year in at least. For Barney. His time was up though; he’d have his exit arranged by the end of his shift. He should have left as soon as Stark made him fry his phone.

Walter was in the area beyond the kitchen, engaged in conversation with a man in a blue lab coat. Clint would give him notice that tonight was his last shift, in order to make his departure less suspicious than just disappearing. If he just disappeared Walter might go to Tony to ask for him to look into it. Clint couldn’t deny anymore that Walt was truly stand-up like that, and had taken a shine to Clint, which was weird and uncomfortable…and kind of nice. He couldn’t remember ever having someone in his corner like this with no intent to get something from Clint.

Stark had paused and he looked Clint over again, more slowly, and cocked his head to the side.

“I see,” he said, and turned to face Gerry and the others, and fuck, Clint could see Walter interrupting his conversation with blue lab coat to look their way. Well, at least this conversation might grease the reasoning wheels on his departure for the man. Clint willed the coffee to percolate faster and watched for an opportunity to slip away. 

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t recall giving you permission to call me Tony.” Stark’s cheer had disappeared, and he suddenly seemed like an entirely different person as he cocked his head at Gerry; more like the unimpressed Director of a gazillion dollar company. Gerry went pale.

“Uh, no Sir, I-” Gerry stammered, and the people around him stepped slightly away, including the ‘friend’ that was always at Gerry’s side.

“In fact,” Stark continued ponderously, “I don’t recall seeing you before now, and I’m good with faces.”

“Um, we’ve met before, Sir. Several times.”

“I see.” Stark clearly doubted this. “Well, perhaps you can explain to me why you think that the work that my highly competent custodial staff does is not “real work.” Do they fictionally make this a safe and sterile work environment for you to enjoy?”

“No, I didn’t mean-”

“Are they perhaps not integral to the daily functioning of my building and business? Does their work not promote the smooth operation and general well–being of employees such as yourself Mr-?” 

Clint saw his opportunity to slip away as Walter sidled up to the group, pulling their attention to him along with Stark and Gerry. Moving silently and quickly, abandoning the precious coffee, he slinked around the corner of the kitchen area, heading towards the locker rooms, and used his security card to access the stairwell and step inside. 

He paused there a moment and took a deep breath.

Stark had, completely unsolicited and undesired, defended Clint’s minor position in his company without a second thought. Clint wasn’t sure if it had anything to do with him directly, or Stark disliking Gerry on principal, but the end result was that Stark had defended him. Sure, it was just against words, and an idiot spewing them at that. But Stark was stupidly wealthy, an Avenger, and a pretty fucking important guy, and Clint was just someone he’d met a few times in a break room at four in the morning. Ignore the fact that Clint could kill him without ever being seen, and could raze this place to the ground with the contents of the custodial store room if he wanted to, Clint wasn’t the type of guy that engendered that kind of response.

At least he never had been before he’d met Walter.

Clint didn’t know what to think about this. He had just needed to keep a low fucking profile, get his paycheck, and figure out what to do about Barney so he could get back to his real job. He decided the best thing to do right now, would be to get to work. He had to keep his charade going long enough to clear his stuff out from the building.

Rolling his neck to relieve the tension, he moved to head down a floor, when he heard the stairwell door below him open very quietly. He went on alert near instantly, because the only people operating doors that carefully in this building were ones that were sneaking around. Clint would know. The soft pitter-patter of multiple people trying to remain quiet as they moved quickly up the stairs followed the door’s operation. Clint looked down the flight just as three men rounded the landing and looked up at him. They were the security guys that had gotten off on the fourth floor during his earlier elevator ride. They were holding silenced M16 rifles with easy, experienced, competent grips, and they were clearly looking to not be caught so soon.

Clint twisted low, whipped the ceramic knife out of his boot as he spun and threw it with intent at the man at the front of the group, who was just letting off a shot at Clint. Quick mother fucker, but not quick enough, as the knife embedded in his neck and he wrenched around. A spray of muffled gunfire ripped into the wall as he clutched his neck with one hand and went down. One of the armed men ducked to miss the bullets, the other had to readjust his position as the dying man fell into him. It was enough time for Clint to leap feet-first down the stairs and deliver a couple devastating drop kicks to rendered them unconscious. His injured arm was a distant throb as his adrenalin was pumping hard now. He bent down to grab one of the guns but jerked back as a bullet imbedded right where he’d been about to reach. He cursed at the realization that there were more attackers on the landing just below.

He was too tired for this shit.

“Three down on level five, hostile employee. Pursuing,” A deep voice said in a brief break between bullets, before more bullets flew and chips of cement and dust chased Clint’s path back up the stairs.

He went up to the eighth floor, hoping to draw them away from Stark and Walter, but only two of the infiltrators followed him. Shit. He could see the stairwells security cameras flashing and wondered if the building’s security was mobilizing. They damn well better be at this point.

Pushing through the heavy stairwell door he discovered the eighth floor was apparently under construction. And not in a good way. It was one massive floor of structural pillars, bare tile floor, and not much else. Not even a damn bucket or tool belt was lying around to be convenient weapons. With no option but to sprint and duck behind a distant pillar, or wait beside the door, Clint picked the latter and slammed himself against the white wall.

It was only moments before the door burst open and Clint twisted with a low round house kick that swept the legs of the first assailant out from under him. He landed with a hard, ungraceful smack, but Clint had snatched his weapon away from him as he fell and now he swung it up like a baseball bat just in time to deflect the second guys weapon aimed at his head. The gunshot went off right beside his ear and even with the silencer the concussive force was damaging. 

Clint ignored this for now and lurched upward to follow through with an elbow to the guy’s throat. The guy choked but didn’t go down, so Clint kneed him in the nuts, and when he bent forward in pain, Clint he drove another elbow into the back of his neck. He might have broken it, but Clint wasn’t particularly concerned about that. The attacker went down silently as Clint twisted and delivered a sidekick to the temple of the first guy, who had begun struggling to his feet. He landed hard beside his companion and stayed down.

Clint took a calming breath. That had probably taken about five seconds.

“JARVIS?” He said loudly into the room, feeling ridiculous, but also not caring as he examined the M16 he’d used as a club. “Security breach. Deadly threat. Report it to whoever the hell you’re supposed to report it to.” Clint figured JARVIS was plugged into this floor, but he wasn’t actually sure. It didn’t hurt to try for its attention regardless.

He tried the trigger and it didn’t work. Shit. The guns were bio-activated. He bent down and grabbed the hand of the guy who had carried it, roughly pressing his index finger over the trigger, and tried again. He put a neat bullet into a pillar. He tried again with his own hand, no go. Okay, so he needed the finger. He went to reach for the knife he could see strapped to the attacker's ankle when the elevator dinged open and a new armed man came out already firing. This guy was wearing a standard business suit, not the mission gear the other guys had changed into, but he was a decent shot and the first bullet seared into his arm as Clint dove back into the stairwell. He knew by feel that it was a graze, probably barely a burn, which was monumentally better than what it could have been, but it hit right above the slice he’d earned during his fight against the Ascendants. The one Stark had grabbed. Pain flared sharp and hot.

Son of a bitch. 

Clint turned his hasty dive into a controlled roll over the body that had been propping the door open. He snagged the knife sheathed on the guy’s leg as he passed through the door to the stairs. As he hit the landing below, he flicked the knife over his shoulder with force. He didn’t need to look to know the guy chasing him wasn’t a threat any longer.

Clint didn’t think twice about heading back down to the sixth floor, because there was no doubt that these guys were here for Stark. The Avengers were called out; Stark was on mandatory stand down. The set-up was pretty damn obvious. He figured at this point, if security hadn’t reacted, they were either removed as an obstacle or something was obstructing the alarm systems. Either way, these assholes weren’t getting Stark on Clint’s watch—he’d put too much work into keeping the guy alive already.

He slipped onto the sixth floor as quietly as possible. Hearing a bit of commotion coming from the common area he moved towards it without hesitation. There was so much glass and reflective surface on this floor that it was easy to assess the situation, and the situation sucked: four of Stark’s people had been backed into the foosball table, clumped tightly together with their arms up, one of them visibly crying. Fucking Gerry. They were cooperating with the two men that were aiming weapons at them, while a third one kept watch towards the hallways. This asshole’s handgun was tucked safely away in a shoulder holster while he was idly twirling and flipping and catching a Rambo-esque hunting knife with skill. He was showboating.

“Stark was registered as being on this floor. Tell us where he went, or I will begin with shooting you,” one of the guns demanded. He was decked out in black field gear that included a tac-vest and throat microphone . They, like all the others Clint had run into, had the upper half of their faces covered with fitted black masks, and it made the sneer seem more threatening. He pressed the muzzle of the gun into Gerry’s shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Gerry wailed, and took a gasping breath as the weapon dug in, not cushioned at all by the t-shirt he wore. “He left a minute before you got here, took the elevator,” he gasped. 

“What floor?” The voice was harsh and sufficiently intimidating that the woman on Gerry’s left flinched, her skin ashen gray in shock.

“He didn’t say,” Gerry said, “please, I’m sorry, I don’t know.” He tried to back away but the game table blocked him. 

Clint had seen enough. He pulled the red rag out of his back pocket, and walked into the room, looking down at his hands as he focused on wiping his fingers. He took big steps, making quick work of the relatively short distance, until—

“Stop where you are, hands up,” a smooth, confident voice ordered, and Clint pretended to startle to a stop. He looked up in feigned surprise, clutching his rag between his hands. He was barely three feet from the guy with the knife, who was brandishing it at Clint in a lazily threatening way, clearly expecting compliance. He appeared cautiously amused that Clint just waltzed obliviously into danger.

“What—” Clint started, forcing a shaken tone and looked at the scene with fear. The other two guys had paused their interrogation and were watching him now, suspicious, but their weapons were still pointed at the group. That would change the moment Clint moved, which was fine, because he’d rather they not shoot the civvies. Well…everyone except Gerry, at least. One of the guys with the tactical gear and gun pressed a hand to his ear, like holding the earpiece in would make it easier to understand.

“Exterior surveillance places target on the seventeenth floor,” the guy said bluntly after a moment of listening, which was dumb because they all obviously had comms and had probably heard the same message.

“Boy did you decide to take a break at the wrong time.” The knife guy grinned at Clint, sharp and mean, and pointed the knife at him. Fucking amateur, he hadn’t even noticed Clint’s injury yet, which would be a clear warning sign to anyone with eyes that he wasn’t a random hostage. Clint didn’t have time for this bullshit. With the rag twisted into a thick line and firmly gripped between his hands, he swiftly stepped to the side as the guy lunged and wrapped the material around the blade. The rag was tight enough to catch the knife mid-thrust and he quickly transferred both cloth ends to his right hand. The guy stuttered in surprise, which Clint took advantage of by wrenching the knife further right, giving the guy the option of letting go of his weapon or following the momentum to try and keep it.

He was apparently pretty attached to the knife, since he followed the momentum, his body twisting sideways just enough for Clint to reach out to the pool table and grab a ball with his free hand. He’d barely grasped it in his fingers before he was whipping it at the other two men, who were turning quickly, guns raised in his direction. The ball smacked hard into the temple of one and ricocheted into the forehead of the other. They both dropped to the ground as heavily as the ball did.

The knife guy finally dropped his blade and had his gun half raised when Clint simply grabbed his wrist and applied pressure. The hand sharply released the gun, and Clint snatched it out of the air and put two neat bullets into his thighs.

“Arggghhhhhhhh,” he collapsed with a pained wail, and Clint acknowledged that his one hearing-aid had been damaged earlier as he only heard the scream in his right ear. It made him nervous and he quickly double-checked the reflections to make sure no one was approaching from the left.

“Holy shit,” a woman exclaimed, as Clint kicked the screaming guy on the floor in the head to shut him up. He looked to the four people huddled together.

“You have two choices: go hide or get something to secure these guys and watch them until security gets here. Also call the cops if you have a cell,” Clint ordered.

“We can’t.” A tall man of Asian descent with a light Scottish brogue shook his head at Clint. “Something’s blocking wireless signals, I’d just realized it when these guys came in.” He nodded at the downed men.

Great.

“Holy shit,” the woman repeated, and Clint ignored her. He needed to get to the seventeenth floor.

“I suggest you go hide, unless any of you have combat experience?” he asked. They all shook their heads, except Gerry who was just shaking in general, staring at Clint like he’d never seen him before. “Take their weapons so they won’t have them if they wake up, and tie them up if you have time, but priority is getting to safety. Understand?” he demanded.

“Yes Sir,” the Scotsman agreed with a frantic nod. Clint turned to go, and then paused a moment, and turned back to Gerry. He held out his hand in the guy’s direction, and Gerry flinched back at the movement, then blinked in obvious confusion.

“But, you’re a janitor,” he told Clint, and Clint twitched the gun in his hand enough that the guy noticed. He sucked in a scared breath, and Clint glared at him.

“The holo-imager. Give it to me,” Clint demanded. Gerry went paler, which Clint hadn’t actually thought was possible at this point.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He shifted on his feet nervously, glancing skittishly between Clint’s face, the gun, and the unconscious men on the floor.

“I’m talking about the classified experimental tech that you’re not supposed to remove from your work floor and yet still carry in your pocket everywhere you go when you’re in the building,” Clint said, and then tilted his head slightly in warning. “I won’t ask again.”

The guy dug into the back pocket of his pants, practically yanking the flexible tube like material from where it had been coiled. Clint snatched it out of his hand, turned his back on them without another word, and ran for the stairwell.

“I can’t believe you carry that in your back pocket! That’s a direct violation—” the woman’s voice shrilled as the door clicked shut behind him. He vaulted over three bodies with ease and ran up the stairs.

ccCcc

Tony had known something was wrong when he and Walter were booted out of the elevator on the seventeenth floor instead of the floor they had selected, which had been the custodian’s assigned work floor. Because Tony had very specific things he wanted to say to Dik and Dik had disappeared on him before he got the chance. Like a dick. It had taken a few moments to ‘clear things up’ in the employee lounge before Tony’d made a break for the elevator, but he figured there were only two places Dik would go: his assigned work floor, or to the custodian room.

The point being, that neither he nor Walter had selected floor seventeen as a destination, and yet the elevator stopped there. JARVIS never let the elevators stop anywhere other than the floor Tony wanted when he was riding in it, so clearly something was wrong.

“J?” he asked and pushed the button for the floor they wanted a couple times. “This isn’t our stop.” They waited a moment and there was no response.

“Mr. Stark, I sense that something is greatly amiss,” Walter declared in his usual soft tones, gazing down at Tony with a look of clear concern.

“Having one of your gut feelings, Mr. Reed?” Tony pondered aloud and cautiously stepped out of the elevator’s open doors. Nobody was around, but he was pretty sure this floor was mostly conference rooms and storage, and seeing as it was nearing five-thirty most, if not everyone, from this floor would have been long gone.

He pulled out his cellphone and felt an apprehensive knot twist in his gut when there was no signal. He looked at Walter who was checking his own phone; the man shook his head negatively. Tony didn’t hesitate, going to the nearest fire alarm he yanked it down. Nothing happened. He looked over and up to meet Walter’s serious blue eyes.

“Are there any hardlines hooked in on this floor?” 

Walter nodded, eyes travelling past Tony and down the hallway behind him. “I believe the executive conference suite at the end of the corridor has a courtesy unit set up.”

“Great, I’ll check that out, you see if there’s anyone else around with a phone that might work. Meet back here no more than five minutes from now.”

“Yes sir,” Walter agreed briskly and turned to head in the opposite direction. Tony jogged to the other end of the large floor and slammed into the desired conference room. The phone he was looking for was apparently inspired by the nineteen-thirty’s desktop rotary. Only it was made with a glass casing that showed off its inner workings, and had a hands-free mouthpiece. He crossed the room to the metal and glass side table that held the device and snatched it up. No dial tone. He picked up the phone itself and checked the hardline connection and made sure it was plugged in properly. He got nothing.

“J?” he asked again, and when JARVIS still didn’t respond he took a deep breath. Okay, this was messed up, but it could just be some minor system glitch, or something someone in the building had accidentally done due to a failed experiment. Easily fixable. He moved to the windows and looked out at New York, just in case there was something obvious outside that might explain this. There was nothing he could see, although he thought he could just make something out, just beyond his view from where he pressed against the glass. He remembered someone mentioning window washing going on this week.

They would be outside the building and might be able to send out an alert for him.

He made his way back to the hallway and quickly walked in the direction of the window washers. He heard voices as he approached his destination, and he picked up his pace a bit, certain that one of them was Walter, and he wanted a situation update. He barely made it five more steps before someone reached out as he was passing an open door and grabbed him. Efficiently.

A hand over Tony’s mouth muffled his immediate protest and he dropped the hot coffee carafe he was still carrying in order to fight back. Somehow, there was no telltale sound of smashing glass and liquid all over the floor. As soon as he re-established his footing, Tony moved to throw himself into a defensive maneuver, but the person who had grabbed him had released him and stepped back. Light filtered in through the open door, and Tony was really fucking confused.

“Dik?” he asked, and received a frosty warning glare as the guy moved to quickly and silently shut the door. Tony pulled out his cell phone and activated the flashlight in lieu of turning on the massive overhead lights. He glared at Dik, who was glaring back at him, hair disheveled, faint bruising around his eye, and the glass coffee pot Tony had been bringing him securely in hand. Dik noticed Tony’s gaze drift to it, and he looked down at the pot. His hard murder face turned to surprise as he properly registered what he was carrying, and then he placed it on the conference room’s large glass oval table with care.

“Stark,” he said, his voice hushed and authoritative and familiar. Of course, Tony had had quite a few conversations with this guy by now but—

“What the hell is going on? Is this really necessary?” Tony gestured at the darkened conference room and themselves in general. The guy’s face went flat, but not unfriendly. Kind of like it usually was around Tony.

“Your building’s been infiltrated. I think they’re after you. Don’t know how many, but they’re well-armed and clearly financed. At this point I’d guess they have at least one on the inside helping, otherwise I doubt they’d have gotten past your security,” Dik explained matter of fact, and Tony considered this a brief moment.

“Okay,” he accepted, because Tony was really good at math and things were adding up in his head. He was fucking furious, but he needed to deal with this now, and then he would handle the fallout once his people were safe. “Reed’s out there talking to someone. I need to get out there and—”

“No,” Dik said flatly, cutting him off, which: rude.

“Yeah, the last time I checked this was my building and they’re after me, so I will be making the decisions here, Dik.”

“That’s not my name, and yeah, they’re after you. You’re the last person who is going out to deal with them.”

“Oh, and I suppose you’re somehow uniquely qualified to do so, hmm. If Walter is in trouble, I am going to get him out of it.”

“Oh, he’s in trouble. Three armed, trained mercs have him on his knees and are trying to get your location out of him. He won’t tell them shit, and frankly I’m not okay with that.”

“Exactly!” Tony agreed, getting frustrated at the stalling and moved toward the door. He was intercepted so smoothly he nearly yelped in surprise. He managed to muffle his indignant squawk and bat away the surprisingly strong hands that had gripped and spun him away from the door in a bizarre dance twist. “Excuse you Mr. Handsy, they’re after me, so I’ll give them me and this will be solved,” he growled, frustrated. He’d been tapping his wrist band for his iron man suit for a minute now, and it wasn’t appearing. Fucking wireless shut down. This shouldn’t be happening and he was going to have to build better wireless redundancies into his armour.

“That’s not going to solve anything,” Dik hissed, and moved his hands to the buttons of his shirt. “Chances are they want you for nothing good. Unknown entities getting their hands on Tony Stark would be bad for a lot of people, besides you. I’ve got a plan though, so take off your jacket.”

Tony shrugged out of the thing before he properly registered the order and stopped, his dark blue suit jacket now gripped tightly in one hand, the obscenely expensive fabric no doubt protesting the treatment.

“I don’t know who you think you are, Dik, but this is my building, and my problem, and I’ll deal—” Dik had stripped out of his custodial uniform with alarming efficiency and was now standing there in a ratty white tank-top and black boxer briefs and what the fuck? Also, damn, this guy clearly put in some serious time at the gym, but patches of dark bruising illuminated in the phone’s pale light stood out starkly on the pale skin of his chest. He also had a number of band aids stuck on his body and Tony wasn’t usually easy to confuse but—

“The offer is flattering and all, but this isn’t the right time for an inter-office romance,” he hissed. 

Dik gave him a witheringly impatient look. “Strip,” he ordered.

“Yeah, no,” Tony refused. “Tell me your plan and then I’ll make it actually feasible,” he ordered, his attention caught by the blood dripping down one of Dik’s arms, and his focus shifted to the large bandage above it. Blood was soaking through it and beginning to drip over the tape and… the next thing he knew he had an arm wrapped around his throat, pressure heavy and all-encompassing and completely unyielding. Tony squirmed and tried for the defensive moves Happy and Steve and Natasha had been training into him for years. Things got hazy quickly, though, and a ringing began to sing high pitched in his head as his awareness became spotty and distant as the pressure let up. He barely registered his clothing being tugged off, and something warm being draped over him where he lay on the floor.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he thought he heard as the light in his phone went out, or maybe it was Tony himself that shutdown. That would become clearer when he woke later.

cCc

Clint had been rough, needing to make up time after arguing with Stark, and he felt badly about it…okay, no he didn’t. In the hallway he finished tugging the suit jacket into place over his shoulders. The cloth fit too snuggly, all of Stark’s clothes did, and the shoes were a size too small scrunching his toes up in fancy leather trappings. He took a breath, rolled his shoulders beneath the tight material, and wrapped the holo-imager around his neck. He knew how the thing worked, after weeks of seeing the diagrams and troubleshooting efforts Gerry and his two buddies fiddled over constantly. It was pretty easy to figure out. Clint took another breath and activated the thing, waiting to see if he would feel it.

He felt nothing.

He held up the pot of coffee Stark had been carrying, checking out his reflection in the inky brown liquid and glass, and found Tony Stark’s ugly mug staring distortedly back at him. He took a big gulp of the still hot coffee to celebrate his success and marched in the direction of the conference room where the strike team had Walter. Clint was angry. He was confused. He was a lot of things at the moment, but most importantly he was Tony Stark. He was Iron Man. He was a billionaire genius and asshole. He rolled his neck and strolled in through the doors like he owned the place, because he did.

“Hey Reed—” he called out, mimicking Stark’s voice as best he could, and then froze on the spot as he took in the situation. Like Stark would. Probably. Well, maybe not, seeing as he was also Iron Man, but whatever, this was Clint’s improv show.

They had Walt on his knees, three weapons trained on him, a cut leaked blood from his eyebrow and his jaw was already swelling with another cut in the corner of his mouth. Bastards had clocked him with a gun, more than once.

“Well, this is awkward,” Clint drawled, pitching his voice as best he could, and thought he did a pretty good job of it. One of the rifles raised to point at him, but the other two remained where they were. He immediately understood this group was better trained and more experienced than the yahoos in the break room.

At the other end of the room the window washing cart hung beyond the glass, and two men stood on it, watching the scene intently. He should have known something was up when he’d seen these assholes watching the Avengers fly off in the Quinjet so intently. Plus, their quality of work sucked. Clint had grown too damned comfortable in this place; he’d lost his sense of suspicion.

“Tony Stark.” A fourth man standing off to the side, no weapon drawn, wore an assessing frown on his dark lips as he looked Clint over. Clint looked down at his own body in the almost obviously too small suit, and back up to the group’s apparent mouthpiece.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Clint asked, and looked pointedly at Walter, who was watching him with an unhappy frown. “Though I don’t recall being given an invitation to this party.” He nodded at the man on his knees who had been the first in years to genuinely help him out with no ulterior motive. Clint didn’t need to be an actual genius to know Walter was trying to figure out what was wrong with this picture. “What say we let this guy go, and we can have a talk at the adult table,” he suggested, confident and sarcastic.

“Mr. Stark, you’re not—” Walter started and Clint glared at him sharply.

“Shut it, Reed, unless you want your three girls to be fatherless as well as motherless,” he snapped. That shut Walter up, but he was frowning harder now. Clint’s words had the desired affect though, as the leader of the group looked between them, and Clint hoped he’d humanized Walt enough. Clint was good, but he couldn’t act with the two guns aimed unwaveringly at Walt when he knew these men would not hesitate to put several bullets into him at the smallest provocation. Walter wasn’t their purpose here, he was collateral damage, and that mattered little to men like these in Clint’s experience. The leader brought his radio up to his lips.

“Target acquired. Prepare extraction.” They would be moving quickly now. Clint would put money down that they’d already lingered longer than they’d planned, and they certainly hadn’t expected Clint’s interference This was a tightly planned op. He’d bet they would have actually been long gone by now if it wasn’t for him.

The window washers were slapping lines of something on the large window as the leader stared at Clint. “Put the coffee down, slowly, move three steps away, and get on your knees,” he ordered. Clint already knew the outcome of this scenario. He’d known it the moment he’d seen them take Walter, just before he’d grabbed Stark to prevent him from walking right into the hornets’ nest. Now he did as told, watching the two that had moved behind Walter, keeping him between Clint and themselves, their weapons unwavering. Walter’s eyes were wide with protest, with denial, with building panic.

“No,” Walter uttered, and Clint glared at him as he slowly dropped to his knees, his hands high over his head. These guys expected Tony to resist, and they expected him to be good at it. They were not dealing with a ‘custodian’ here, they were dealing with an Avenger, and they weren’t taking chances.

At the nod of the leader, the third mercenary marched over and slapped a metal cuff over his right forearm, and pulled his arms down behind his back, where he attached the second cuff. Clint didn’t resist, the metal cold and unyielding, and he could feel the tackiness of blood beginning to leak down his arm, hopefully still trapped by the button-up’s fine material so they didn’t notice it. The mercenary hauled Clint to his feet with a hand that dug sharply into his armpit, thumb pressed right over the fresh bullet wound. He frisked him with quick, invasive slaps all over his body and Clint considered snapping at him to be gentle, but held it in. Stark’s cell was pulled from his inner jacket pocket and tossed away with no thought. He found the handgun in the waistband at the back of his pants next, the one he’d taken down in the break room, and held it out for his leader to see. The man frowned at it.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” Clint shrugged, carefully not looking at Walter.

“You don’t usually carry this type of weapon,” Leader pondered and Clint shrugged.

“I borrowed it,” he said impatiently. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.” Behind them the glass melted along the strips the window washers had placed, and the window was pushed inward. It crashed to the ground in one solid pane, not shattering or spiderwebbing like tempered or laminated glass. Clint noticed Walter flinch at the impact but nobody else blinked. The window-washing platform was rising out of the picture, and the moment it cleared away a flying vehicle, very similar to the Quinjets the Avengers and SHIELD favoured, backed up to the new point of egress. Wind whipped through the room, ruffling hair and clothing and Clint’s suit jacket flapped dramatically. 

Clint allowed himself to be shoved to the window, aware that the mercenaries rotated to keep Walter between themselves and Clint, one’s eyes were on him, the other’s were on the door to the conference room. He glanced at Walt as he passed. The guy was still tall even on his knees, his eyes wide and upset, blood dripping onto the tan suit he was wearing, marring it and the light purple shirt beneath, but he was still breathing so Clint kept cooperating.

They were rushing now, a sense of urgency heavy in their careful actions, and Clint wondered exactly how delayed they actually were. An attack like this would not go unnoticed for long, they were working with a tight schedule.

Clint jogged right up to the window edge without hesitation, his toes being crushed in the too small shoes, and he made the short jump into the back of the plane. The two men waiting for him grabbed his arms on either side, dragging him further in. It was hard not to lash out at the sharp pain when both wounds on his arm were squeezed. They slammed him into a chair that was clearly designed for the special restraints. Heavy cuffs locked his feet to the ground, a band stretched over his lap, another across his chest. They made no move to release his arms to bring them forward, but there was an open space at the base of the seat that allowed for his hands to rest without pressure, so he wasn’t painfully uncomfortable. It was all very considerate.

Clint glossed over this as he watched the men with guns finally back away from Walter and jump onto the plane, then the window washers swung down from above and were inside, and finally the leader of their troupe followed. He cast a last look at Walter as the door began closing, as if daring him to make a move, but Walter remained on his knees, gaze staring at Clint, and Clint looked away. Walt was part of his past now, there was no need to maintain such an intimate connection.

Clint swallowed thickly and worked to control his breathing.

“Target secure. Fall out,” The leader barked into his radio and Clint felt the plane bank rapidly away from the building.

A man sitting at a console behind the pilot's seat, sunglasses on even in the artificially lit interior, sat back in his small metal chair. “Security’s finally clued in; they’re flooding the floors. Looks like we made it just under the wire. Seems to me you need a better alarm system.” He grinned at Clint, and Clint shrugged.

“Not my problem,” he decided, truthfully, and imagined the man was rolling his eyes behind the glasses.

“Nine men unaccounted for,” another spoke up and marched with angry steps towards Leader, who had removed his mask and was leaning against the aircraft’s closed rear hatch where he stared at Clint intently. “I thought all the Avengers were responding to the callout,” he demanded of his boss. Clint idly wondered if he had a personal connection to one of the nine that didn’t make it out. He certainly seemed upset enough as he removed his own face covering to glare. “Who the hell was there that had the training to take them down? I thought you said they were the best we could get.” Okay, he was just pissed at being thwarted in general.

“They were.” The leader continued to watch him, and he breathed calmly, finding his inner focus, because he was going to be needing it sooner than he’d like and he needed to prepare himself for any outcome. “There was an unknown in the building. Stark must have slipped a sleeper security agent in and we missed them.” He looked at Clint with a fiercely piercing gaze. “Who the hell did you hire that’s that good?” he demanded, and Clint felt a flicker of dark pride at the unintentional compliment. They’d barely seen how good he was.

The pride flickered away quickly though, because obviously he hadn’t been good enough.

“I had nothing to do with the hiring process,” he answered honestly, trying to maintain Stark’s tone, because they were probably too far away now to head back and finish off Walter or get their hands on Stark, but why risk it? They were not going to be happy when they realized their mission had failed. Clint could very easily imagine the resources and time that would have gone into planning this particular abduction. “And I can guarantee the person is not getting paid enough for this shit.”

“Relax,” the sunglass-kid drawled from where he was sprawled in his chair, watching them all. “The rest of the teams are reporting successful egress, we’ve got Stark, we’ve got a secure destination. It all worked out. Now we just have a big fat check to collect and we’ll be legendary—”

“Shut up,” Leader said, his eyes flicking to Clint’s face intently.

Clint remained very still, not wanting to jostle the holo-imager, because he was well aware that it had a shit battery life and he was also aware that the three yahoos who were supposed to be fixing it weren’t at that stage yet. He imagined Stark’s visage was beginning to flicker, and sure enough the leader’s eyes narrowed even more as he moved closer to Clint. The guy was at least six-foot-five and Clint did not like being locked down like this before him. He took another deep breath.

“What is this,” the guy growled, coming right up close and personal, staring at Clint’s face. Then he straightened abruptly, nostrils flaring and the other men in the plane let out a string of startled curses.

“Shit, did the batteries run out already? I thought I had at least another two minutes,” Clint sighed, and rolled his neck.

“What the fuck. What the fuck!!” Sunglasses screeched. “Who the hell are you? This can’t be happening,” he moaned. Leader was staring down at Clint with a very controlled rage that had Clint’s adrenalin spiking. He forced his body to remain relaxed, because he knew the tenser he was the more this would hurt in the long run.

“You’re not Stark,” he stated flatly, like he just needed to get the words out to wrap his head around the concept properly. It was very clear he was the thinker here, and that he was aware there was no going back to properly complete their mission at this point.

Clint shrugged. “For the right price you can call me anything you want.” He forced his most charming grin onto his face. The worst thing about having eyesight as sharp as his, and the skills and instincts to see an attack coming from miles away, was that it gave you ample time to know exactly what was coming, and even more time to sink into the understanding that there was no way to avoid it.

The fist hit his face like a sledge hammer. Hot, battering pain bloomed and rattled his head as his neck snapped to the left. The motion jerked his body and his injured arm pressed hard against the steel band locking him in place. He’d barely straightened out when he was hit again, and the sharp, whitening pain that stole his breath told him his nose was broken. The gushing liquid streamed over his mouth and he looked up at the guy, pulling his lips back in a grin.

“I didn’t fuck up your plans, did I?” he asked, and spit onto the floor. He saw the third hit coming, and the fourth and fifth were for his stomach. He tried to curl forward at the impact, but the strap held him upright as the air was forced from his lungs. He saw stars as he struggled to get his diaphragm under control enough to suck in a fresh lungful of air and not gag simultaneously. Another hit to the face loosened a tooth for sure, and then the assault stopped. The leader took a deep breath and stepped back.

Clint could make out someone whining about what they were going to do now, but only through his one still working ear and he couldn’t gather the focus to read anyone’s lips. He could feel reactive tears leaking from his eyes and mingling with blood as it dripped off his face. The second-in-charge stepped forward at a nod from Leader and grabbed the holo-imager Clint wore like a necklace, jerking it sharply. The clasp held and Clint was pulled forward by his neck, his chest crushed against the chair restraint, a sharp pain radiated through his ribs. The guy jerked it again, harder, and thankfully it broke that time, releasing Clint and flopping in the gloved hand. The leader eyed the device with disgust.

“We hand him over, explain, and go from there.” He didn’t seem concerned about repercussions, which in Clint’s experience meant the guy hiring them to grab Stark was more rich than dangerous. He probably expected the boss to throw a temper tantrum, but these mercenaries were the dangerous ones. Clint didn’t recognize any of them, but he also hadn’t met a lot of people in his own line of work as he preferred solo gigs.

“Oh mannnn, there goes our bonus—” Sunglasses whirled around in his seat in disgust and glared at Clint. “Why would you do that, huh? I mean, you’ve got to know this is going nowhere good for you.” 

“A guy will do a lot for decent benefits.” He shrugged, his words slurred and thick, and he cracked a smile that he hoped was pretty guileless.

“Who are you?” Leader asked, calmer now, and the second in command handed him a wet wipe which he used to clean Clint’s blood from his knuckles.

“Professional Tony Stark cos-player.” Clint leaned forward and spit again, trying to clear the blood from his mouth. “People hire me for parties, business openings, and as a decoy impersonator. Shit gig, but it pays the bills.” He tongued his loose tooth. It should hold.

“He’s crazy,” Sunglasses grumbled and looked like he wanted to pace, but kept to his seat at a glare from one of the window washers. They had stripped out of their coveralls and were now in the same black fatigues everyone else wore. The leader looked at one of them, and he immediately went to dig around in what sounded like a tool box.

“Who are you?” the leader asked again, looming over him, arms crossed.

“Your worst nightmare.” Clint grinned, charmed at the chance to use that line again. He saw the window washer approach, because even strapped to a chair with two swelling eyes and one functional ear he was aware of everything. He pretended he didn’t though, because there was no point in advertising his perceptiveness. He only flinched when the guy stopped right beside him and unceremoniously slammed a needle into the meat of his shoulder. The injection site burned, a heavy, hot smear that spread deep through his muscle before he felt his world drifting away from him, robbing him of his attention, of his words, of his courage. Just before the sedative took full hold, he acknowledged his fear, and he drifted away with a cold knot of apprehension clogging his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun little side note (or at least I think so...but I've had a couple glasses of wine tonight and as I rarely drink everything is a bit funny at the moment!) I've had this story saved as "Custodian Clint" since it's inception way back when I started writing it. :D


	9. That Dik

It took longer than Tony would like to admit to regain his equilibrium as he lay on the cold tiled floor of a room he had never stepped into before this day. It took maybe an entire minute, and when he moved to sit up he realized his hands had been tied behind his back, along with his ankles. It took him frankly too long to wriggle out of the shredded undershirt the crazy man had apparently used to bind his hands and feet. Tony pushed to his knees, and the pants and shirt he’d been draped with slipped off to puddle on the floor.

He stared at them a moment, processing, and looked around to see that he’d been dragged into the room’s corner and tucked against the wall, on the other side of a large, dark wood sideboard. He would have been hidden from anyone quickly glancing in the room, but that was about it. He was wearing nothing but his boxers and black socks and was distracted from this revelation by a large crashing sound somewhere beyond his room.

“If this shit happens to Reed Richards, he has not been sharing tales,” Tony muttered, dragging the pants hastily up his legs, and shoving his arms through the shirt. He nearly tripped over a pair of black combat boots when he moved to the door, catching himself on the sideboard and rattling the stacked water glasses. He looked at the boots, jammed his feet in, and then rushed out of the room, buttoning a few holes on the shirt as he went. He headed left, running as quietly as he could in the too large footwear. He only had to go two doors down to the large conference room with its double doors cracked half open. He paused at the doorframe’s edge to listen. He didn’t hear voices, so he carefully poked his head around to assess the situation, and he paused at what he saw. Walter was standing alone in the room, his suit jacket ruffling lightly in the wind coming from a massive section of missing windowpane. He was about five feet from the edge, just staring out, and then he seemed to pull himself together and turned, heading right at Tony in a rush.

Walter stuttered to a standstill as soon as he spotted him and Tony stepped into the room somewhat warily. He still had no clue what the hell was going on, his phone was gone, and Jarvis hadn’t contacted Tony yet so he must still be down.

Walter had blood leaking down his face from multiple cuts and the beginnings of a bruise swelling his left cheek.

“Mr. Stark?” he nearly gasped, as close to ruffled as Tony had ever seen the man, and he’d known him for years. “You’re here.” He rushed forward once more, looking like he wanted to grab Tony’s shoulders and look him over, but refrained at the last moment, instead giving Tony his preferred personal space and tracing him with sharp, worried eyes. They narrowed when they registered the outfit he was wearing, and his posture slumped as he looked towards the window. “Of course,” he muttered.

“Explain,” Tony demanded as the sound of pounding feet carried closer from the corridor.

“I had a good feeling about him from the start, Sir.” Walter sighed, which was not even neighbouring an answer and Tony’s frustration built.

“Stark, stay where you are,” Happy Hogan burst into the conference room behind him, Tony easily recognized his voice, and he turned to find his head of security (Pepper’s husband of three years) scanning the area. The man was decked out in a Kevlar vest, his Bluetooth radio sat snug against his ear, a pistol present in a thigh holster over his suit pants, and an automatic assault stun rifle Tony had designed at Happy’s request years before, was pulled tight into his shoulder and ready for use. Happy stepped right past Tony and Walter, scanning the room with the muzzle of his weapon, he rounded the table and moved right to the ledge of the window to peer out at the city. Tony turned to see three more equally armed Stark Tower security officers in the hall, one covering Happy, the other two facing opposite directions and covering their backs.

“Clear,” Happy decided, and jogged back to stop beside them, looking Tony over first, lingering a moment on his outfit, and then checking Walter’s injuries. “Are you okay?” he asked Tony, intent on an answer as he looked between them.

“Nothing hurt but my pride. Walter needs medical.”

“I’m fine, Sir,” Walter denied, and Tony let it go for the moment, trusting him to know his limits.

“Sitrep.” He looked at Happy, who held up a hand to ask for a moment as he kept his eyes on the window while cocking his head the way he always did when listening to the radio. Tony was ready to throw a chair out the damn window he was so frustrated.

“Sir, the situation is clear, building secure, but we’re remaining in lock down.” He dropped his weapon so it hung from the shoulder strap with the muzzle pointed at the ground but kept a ready grip on it. “We were infiltrated, Sir, by unknown, armed, combatants. We think twenty all together. They didn’t leave with any tech, it appears their target goal was you, Sir.”

Of course it was.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Two of my security team from the main surveillance room are down. Don’t know what happened to them yet, they’re with medical. One scientist was shot, there was no provocation, but witnesses said he seemed too calm about the situation. We think he’ll survive because a custodian on the floor was able to provide emergency medical care. A few bumps and bruises elsewhere, but that’s it.” He eyed Walter again.

“You’re thinking they had inside help,” Tony considered, and wondered about the targeted scientist.

“Must have, Sir. They managed to put up a wave blocker and blacked out the building. Lombardo thinks it was a custom targeted EMP, something we haven’t seen yet. It shorted out JARVIS, or at least temporarily disrupted his ability to communicate or actively function. We didn’t realize anything was amiss until the two in surveillance failed to meet their twelve-minute check in. We had to do a hard reboot and re-synch for the radios before we began clearing floors, but we think their attack was only active for about fourteen minutes. They left on an unidentified aircraft. It had cloaking technology. SHIELD is searching for it now.”

This was a shitshow. How the hell did they even get in the building?

“If they wanted me,” Tony frowned, “why the hell would they come here? There are better locations for a snatch and grab, ones that wouldn’t involve waiting for the team to leave in the first place.” Take Toronto for example. 

“It’s too soon to know, Sir. But they did meet resistance. We thought it might have been you?” 

“No.” Tony frowned and shook his head. “I didn’t know there was even a problem until Dik shanghaied me and literally stole the clothes off my back. Speaking of, where the hell is he?” He glared at Walter, and then his eyes caught on the coffee carafe sitting on the edge of the large oval table in the middle of the room. He’d been bringing it to the guy as an apology for having douche-junior-assholes working for him, but they’d never made it that far…and then Dik found him.

Walter sucked in a breath, and Tony finally registered that the worry the man was carrying was not dissipating in the least.

“Sir, I believe you are referring to Mr. Barton. He is a member of my custodial staff, as you recently learned, and,” he eyed the outfit Tony was wearing, “he appears to be far more than he portrays. I believe he got his hands on one of the experimental facial holo-imagers and, well, to be frank he used it to impersonate you.”

“Me,” Tony said flatly, mind jumping to warp speed, finally catching up a bit after the asshole had cut the blood flow off from his brain with what amounted to an embarrassing lack of resistance on his end. Then the asshole just left him bundled up in a corner.

“Yes, Sir,” Walter agreed, and Happy was looking extremely displeased. “I thought it was you, and to be honest he did a fair impersonation, but he came in here and—” he looked back out the window. “He convinced them he was you and allowed himself to be taken so they wouldn’t—” He stuttered to a brief stop again. “That’s the second time he’s saved my life,” he looked at Tony, “and now he’s potentially saved yours as well.”

Tony stared at Walter, and then he looked down at the outfit he was wearing that was loose, and half-buttoned. There was a hole in one arm which he noticed had a patch of damp red-brown that could only be blood. He looked at the well-worn, scuffed, too large boots. He looked at the coffee carafe sitting on the table. He considered the way he’d been handled by Dik in the conference room, and how the guy had pretty much been the only person in the building who didn’t want Tony’s attention when he had it. The guy was, like, twenty years old at the most. Tony had thought he’d been an intern, or a grumpy junior researcher.

He’d been unreasonably strong and skilled when he’d maneuvered Tony away from danger, incapacitated him and stole his clothing, and all to, what? Turn himself over to Tony’s would be abductors? Why would he do that?

“Who the fuck is Barton?” he demanded, stepping closer to Walter, needing a real answer now, because he needed to get moving on this. He remembered the blood-soaked bandage on his arm, and his farfetched theory about the guy might not be so crazy after all. It was time to confirm. They had to figure out how to find this guy, because Tony was not letting it end here. No fucking way.

“Sir,” Tony froze and looked around, hearing JARVIS for the first time since the elevators shut down on them. Relief flooded through him.

“We found the jamming device,” Happy reported, though it was obvious at this point. Tony spotted his phone lying against the wall about ten feet away. He jogged over to it, boots thumping loudly, and scooped it up.

“Talk to me, J.”

“Sir, systems are back online and fully operational. I’m running a primary diagnostic as we speak, secondary and tertiary will follow. Scans concur with Security’s estimate that the building is cleared of hostiles. SHIELD is requesting a status update and have cars en-route. The team has been notified of the situation. They are returning home now, ETA twenty-six minutes. The situation they were deployed for has mysteriously cleared up. SHIELD teams deployed as support will investigate further.”

“Okay. We’re heading up to the situation room.” Tony marched back into the hallway and to the elevators with Happy, Walter, and the three security personnel following. The doors opened obligingly as he arrived. He wanted someone to look at Walter’s injuries. Every floor of the building was supposed to have two employees trained in first aid, and some of the floors had personnel with a high level of medical experience, but it was after hours and not everyone would be avaialbale. “You said there was a doctor who treated the scientist who was shot. He still in the building?” He looked at Happy.

“He’s a custodian, Sir, but he seemed to know his stuff.”

“That would be Mr. Bayatullah. He is one of our finest,” Walter agreed. “He was an experienced emergency room doctor in his homeland Sir, though he hasn’t been able to practice in the six years since he emigrated here. At least not in any official capacity.”

“Great, get him up to the conference room as well. He can look you over.”

“Mr. Stark, that’s not necessary—”

“Walter,” Tony looked at him, “when was the last time you were beaten and held at gun point?”

“I, well, never Sir.”

“Right. Bayatullah is going to look you over, or you’re going to the hospital. After we get a full sitrep you’re going home to your wife and daughters. Understand?”

“Of course, Sir.” He bowed his head in agreement after a long moment of staring. When did Tony’s long-time employees start getting so damn stubborn? And also, who the fuck is Barton? He fumed as he thought of the jacked-up blond kid that he’d been poking at for months now. It had been an amusing distraction for Tony in the early morning hours, trying to wind the guy up to see how he’d react. Now he wanted answers, and he wanted them yesterday. His thumb rubbed over a mark on the phone he was still clutching, and he looked at the scratch in irritation because he’d literally only had this thing for a week after the last one fell into that volcano. He frowned at the damage, and then realized it was small letters. Then he realized it was a name scratched with haste in shit penmanship, into the back of the metal casing.

“Who the hell is Barney Barton?” he demanded, as the elevator doors opened wide on the Avengers’ official mission floor.

cCc

“Who’s Barney Barton?” Tony demanded the moment Phil and the rest of his team strode into the situation room. When Phil had rushed off the Quinjet practically as it was still landing, intent on making sure Tony was okay and figuring out what exactly was going on, he had not been anticipating that forceful greeting.

Tony, who was wearing the blue-lined black Iron Man underarmour, was poised between three glass screens suspended from the room’s ceiling, flicking through lines of code and glaring at a small device that sat on the podium scanner beside him.

“I’m unfamiliar with that name,” Phil answered swiftly, and received an impatient look for his troubles.

“He’s a SHIELD agent,” Tony explained. “But I don’t feel like hacking your systems right now, so if you could just give me an answer that would be great,” he demanded. 

Off to the side of the room, Happy Hogan stepped away from his position along one wall and nodded at them in a general greeting. “Sir, I’m going to go see to the tower,” he told Tony.

“Keep me updated,” Tony agreed as his friend sped away.

“Do you know what happened yet?” Steve asked, moving to stand at Tony’s shoulder and then backing off a bit as Sam came to join them, his eyes scanning the data as Tony flicked through it. Sam understood this stuff on a different level than Steve and he was happy to leave him to it. Phil would be amused by the subtle byplay, but he was too busy using his phone to pull up the file on Barton from SHIELD’s secure server. He connected it to the central wall screen closest to Tony.

“Getting there,” Tony answered shortly. “They were after me, they got someone else. We need to find them and get him back,” he practically growled, and Phil doubted any of them missed the anger in his tone. It was fair, his domain had been infiltrated, his employees hurt and scared, and despite Tony’s public persona of casually dismissing people, he was a bear about his people’s safety. “Barton, who is he?” he demanded again. Phil frowned at him and then obligingly began relaying the information aloud.

“Agent Bernard Barton. Junior status. Joined SHIELD two years ago following an honorable discharge from the army after turning down an offer to join the Rangers. He applied to several agencies, was accepted by the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security, but decided on SHIELD.” Phil read the basic profile stats flatly. Tony had paused what he was working on to look at the profile image of a tanned, auburn-haired man in his late twenties staring with bright eyes at the camera. He had a crooked nose, clearly from one or two breaks that hadn’t been set correctly but was otherwise classically handsome.

“Why SHIELD?” Natasha asked, sidling up beside him while Bruce joined Sam and Tony. Steve stood in between the two groups, a furrow on his brow as he looked at the agent’s image. 

Phil considered the question, but there was nothing in the file that answered it. They’d have to dig deeper into the psych and HR interviews for that. “I’ll find out,” Phil answered, which satisfied her.

“Can you get him here?” Tony asked, oddly intent, and Phil frowned at the man in concern, before shaking his head. “Bernard Barton was injured during a mission a while back and has been in a coma ever since. I don’t think he will be able to answer your questions,” he explained, as he finally made a connection to the agent.

Phil remembered hearing about the incident that landed Barton in a coma, though he’d not been involved in the mission in any capacity. It was one of those situations you hear filtered through the halls and at the lunch table: Did you hear about the junior agent that was shot off a roof with a percussion weapon? Poor guy’s in a coma. And it ended at that, because Phil was one person in an organization with thousands, and, to be frank, he only dealt with the top-level situations these days because he literally could not stretch himself further.

He remembers asking his assistant to send flowers to the agent’s family when he’d heard about it, and then work replaced all thoughts of him. Cold? No. He had no connection to the agent and hadn’t heard anything of it since. It was an unfortunate aspect of the job, but hierarchy was there for a reason, and there would be other people to deal with that situation.

“Not what I was hoping for,” Tony sighed, and looked back at the screens.

“Tony, why is he important?” Steve asked, and Tony tossed him his cell phone.

“He’s important, because one of my custodial staff apparently took it upon himself to impersonate me and let himself be kidnapped in my place by the very violent, very armed people that infiltrated my building. Barney Barton—and correct me if I’m misreading this because that would actually be preferred in this situation—is his final request. I’m going to go out on a limb here and conclude that he’s asking me to take care of this guy in payment for his sacrifice.” 

Phil frowned and stepped over beside Steve, who was examining the phone casing, his large index finger grazing gently beneath the etched words.

“That’s messed up,” Sam decided. “Who is he?”

“That,” Tony snapped his fingers, “is apparently a much more difficult question to answer than I expected, though I have suspicions. The short answer, is that it’s Dik.”

“Dik.” Sam frowned. “Dik, as in the grumpy, blond, bruised coffee-addict night owl who you occasionally meet at four in the morning? The one that beaned you in the face with an orange with his eyes closed? The one you grabbed in the arm yesterday?”

“Yes, that Dik. Who is apparently a night shift custodian and not an engineer, whose name is Clint Barton, whom I assume is a relation to the agent, and whom I can’t seem to find on my security systems whenever I try to trace his movements in the building.”

“You can’t find him?” Bruce asked, frowning. “I thought JARVIS kept a redundant bio track on every person in the building.”

“In a sense he does. JARVIS runs surface level security scans constantly, on some floors he’s more active because they’re more classified or dangerous research levels, on others it’s video only, some locations are audio distress only etcetera, etcetera. The information is filtered and stored, but only actively requires attention when suspicious activity occurs, such as odd movement patterns.” He glared at the image of Bernard Barton on the screen, as if he was to blame for all of this. “A good chunk of the men who attacked today were entered into the building as extra security because of the threat that was issued towards me last week. They were all vetted and came out clean, I just checked that over, and Happy’s going to look into it further. Chances are there’s more than one employee who was working with them, but for now we only know about the scientist they tried to kill, potentially to shut him up.” He turned to glare back at the screens before him.

“Point is, all Stark employees are scanned upon hiring, and JARVIS has them registered and can trace their activities within the walls. But whenever he looks for our young and restless custodian, all he gets is confirmation that he’s in the building, working his shift, and then he’s out of the building. He’s like a ghost.”

“So he’s running some kind of chameleon program on JARVIS’s security grid,” Sam ponders. “He’d have to have access to very specifically networked computers to be able to launch the code into JARVIS, or else he’s a better programmer than you,” he raised an eyebrow at Tony.

“He’s not better than me,” Tony dismissed easily, “but he’s clearly crafty, and unexpected, and since JARVIS is apparently programmed to not notice him, he also can’t find the code, which is why I am looking for it. Manually.” He gestured at the screen on the right.

“You don’t have an employee profile image?” Steve asked, which had been Phil’s next question.

“Oddly enough, it’s not in the system, yet somehow the scanning stations at the front door always recognize and accept him.”

“I find this pretty concerning,” Steve muttered. “I thought there were failsafes for that.”

“There are,” Tony nearly growled, and took a breath. “But he was hired legitimately, which gives him legitimate access to the building. Somehow he’s manipulated the system from within, and he must have done it while invisible otherwise JARVIS would have noticed him sitting at one of the three terminals he’d need to input the code from: Happy’s office, this room, or from my personal lab.”

As he said it, Walter Reed, a man Phil knew cordially after the last few years working with Tony and the Avengers, moved into the room with long, purposeful strides. He had a stuffed plastic bag in one hand, and a paper file in the other. 

“I have it, Mr. Stark,” the man said. He had several small bandages on his face, and a purpling bruise on his cheek, but he was shrouded in his usual unflappable calmness.

Tony snatched the folder from his hand and cracked it open. Yanking out a page, he turned and held it in front of the metallic podium at his side. A beam of thin blue light scanned it.

“Voila!” he crowed a moment later, and with a flick of his fingers an image blew up to overlap the SHIELD profile of Barney Barton. It was of a young man with unimpressed blue eyes that were looking away from the camera. He had an odd pucker to his lips like he was about to say something, and dirty blond hair that was spiking over his head in a lopsided manner that spoke of running his fingers through it after yanking a hat off his head.

“Clint Barton, apparent custodian of Stark Tower, and self-sacrificing asshole with computer programming skills that I am going to flay him for once we get him back.”

“I’ve met him,” Steve said, a bit incredulous and frowning as he no doubt thought through every interaction with the man. “A few times, actually.”

“I’ve had several conversations with him as well,” Bruce said. “Seemed nice, but I’m more concerned with why he wanted to hide from JARVIS than how.”

“I’ve seen him before as well,” Phil realized, tracing the features and recognizing exactly where he’d seen him before. “Twice. He called himself Agent Bailey when I bumped into him at the New York office.” Which meant he had infiltrated SHIELD. Twice. Phil pulled out his phone, prepared to get an immediate and thorough investigation underway because this was not okay.

“Clint Barton,” Sam repeated his name and looked at the image speculatively.

“Ronin,” Natasha said, simply. Factually. They all turned away from the image and stared at her. Phil’s look was sharp as she continued to gaze at the image on the screen. After a moment she broke away to look at him and nodded when their eyes met.

Phil wasn’t one for swearing, but right about now he was ready to drop more than one expletive at this clusterfuck. He took a breath and—

“I KNEW it!” Tony barked sharply, victorious and angry. “I knew he was Ronin. That asshole,” he finished, much more softly, and Sam whistled.

“And you slapped him on a wound right after he saved your life.”

“And then made him destroy his phone,” Steve added.

Phil really wanted more details about that, but he’d get them later. For now, he needed to learn everything he could about Bernard Barton, Clint Barton, and how the hell he’d managed to infiltrate SHIELD twice, and more specifically, why the infamous assassin was working as a custodian for Stark.

And why he’d kept showing up to help them both in Toronto, Central Park, and potentially that time at the Brooklyn Bridge.

And why, exactly, he’d sacrificed himself for Tony this evening.

Phil had a lot of ground to cover.

cCc

Phil set Agent Melinda May on Agent Barton’s background check, because she was at the New York office and he knew she’d be bored enough in her self-enforced field-sabbatical to do a little in-house investigation.

He was not happy with what she learned.

“Are you telling me,” Deputy Director Hill was also not happy if the stony look on her face in their video conference was anything to go by, “that Agent Barton is Ronin’s brother.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Melinda agreed, her face taking up the other screen, giving Phil and the Avengers a larger than life impression of exactly how irritated both women were. Phil understood completely.

“And Clint Barton, who is estimated to be twenty-three years old, is Ronin.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Phil agreed this time.

“And that Agent Barton, after being injured in the line of duty, has been in a coma ever since, and the facility he was placed in for his care was neither vetted by SHIELD nor an acceptable facility for one of our Agents who has been seriously injured in the line of duty?”

“It appears that way,” Melinda agreed flatly.

“And Ronin came out of obscurity and infiltrated SHIELD in order to discuss his brother’s situation, where he was told in no uncertain terms that we don’t give two shits about his brother’s care after being injured working for us.”

“And then he got a job in my building, which is a funny story for another time,” Tony took over her recitation of facts, “because he needed a legitimate paper trail income in order to get his brother placed into a care-facility that wouldn’t slowly starve him to death from negligence. Then he infiltrated SHIELD again when you further cut his brother’s insurance payout which would have booted Bernard from his current residence if he couldn’t cover the cost differentiation.” Tony cocked his head to the side. “I’m thinking as far as recruitment strategies go, you guys nailed it. I really don’t know why he hasn’t signed on with SHIELD sooner.”

“This is not how we treat our people,” Hill growled. “The individual responsible has been removed from duty pending full investigation, and Agent Barton’s situation and status is also being investigated. Thoroughly.”

“Maybe it’s just me, but from the few conversations I’ve had with Dik, he doesn’t seem like the most forgiving type. Not sure your investigations are going to mean jack at this point,” Tony said.

“None of which will matter if we don’t find him,” Phil said, his head aching and it had only been two hours since they’d begun investigating.

“Working on it,” Tony snapped, and then rubbed at his eyes, sighing. “Maybe we could ask one of the nine combatants we have who hired them to infiltrate the tower, but wait: they’re either dead, in surgery, or unconscious.”

“No complaining about enemy combatants being contained,” Sam declared as he kept scanning the code. 

“Keep me updated,” Hill ordered, and signed off without a goodbye. Phil stepped away from the group and brought his phone to his ear, knowing she was expecting his call. He was not looking forward to hearing about how easily Barton infiltrated their world-security organization. Aside from how dangerous that was, it was embarrassing.

cCc

Tony looked briefly to where Agent moved to the corner and started a semi-private chat on his phone. He saw Steve was standing near the table with Natasha, who had been oddly quiet, opting to remain in the tower instead of aiding the investigation at SHIELD’s New York headquarters. Steve was frowning down at the pile of personal items Mr. Reed had procured from the infamous Clint Barton’s employee locker.

“There’s not much here, but the majority of it is personal care items.”

“I thought we’d moved past that when we went through the bag in the first place,” Tony huffed, rubbing his eyes before looking back to his work. He hadn’t calmed down in the slightest these last few hours. Steve clearly chose to ignore his caustic tone.

“Most people would maybe have a toothbrush or some deodorant, sure,” Steve answered Tony. “But the shaving tools? Stored towels? Nail clippers and tweezers, the first aid kit…it’s almost like he’s using this place as his primary bathroom instead of a quick change over between work and home.”

“I’ve been looking into an investigation Coulson and Natasha have been doing since Ronin showed up at Central Park,” Melinda said. “It seems evident that the vehicle that was blown up by the rocket launcher a few months ago, the one with the SHIELD agents’ missing guns, belonged to Ronin. The investigative team believed that whoever owned the vehicle was most likely living in it at the time.”

“Great,” Tony poked aggressively at the screen he was working at, “so he’s probably homeless, which means he’s broke or trying to stay off the radar. The homeless, broke, world-renowned assassin was here cleaning floors to take care of his abandoned, comatose brother, and is apparently living out of a locker to…” he trailed off, eyes narrowing in thought. “Steve, check through his clothing pockets? See if there’s some kind of device or something in there.”

Steve moved over to the crumpled pile of work clothes and did as asked without hesitation. He pulled out a half-crumbled pack of juicy-fruit gum, a screw, a small metallic box the size of a tic-tac container, and a tiny canister of dental floss. Natasha gently ran a finger over the dental floss but said nothing. Tony waved a grabby hand at Steve. Steve ignored him and looked the metal box over.

“There’s a button in the center of it,” Steve said.

“Push it,” Tony ordered, and they all watched as he did. Nothing happened that they could see.

“Sir, it would appear that Clint Barton has just signed out of the building through security downstairs, though security confirms there is no physical sign of him.” JARVIS announced.

“That sneaky son-of-a—”

“He’s living in the building,” Steve concluded, and eyed the small device before finally tossing it Tony’s way. “We should check the vents.”

“Really? That’s your conclusion here? You…” Tony trailed off again, eyes narrowing, and then he grinned darkly. “ Gotcha!”

“You found the chameleon code?” Sam turned away from his work and they all watched as Tony isolated a string of code, removed it from where it was embedded, and flung it up onto the big screen.

“That’s it?” Steve asked as he looked over the four lines of coding. “I thought something as complicated as removing a person from active security sweeps would be…bigger.”

“Oh, it’s complicated, and simple,” Sam decided as Tony went back to looking over his screens again, double checking that he got it all. “It’s…actually surprisingly elegant—”

“Yes, yes, clearly he knew what he was doing, or at least had a brilliant computer genius who knew what they were doing. It looks like a spliced job to me, the base starts with one style and it’s been adjusted to fit this purpose,” Tony tapped a few more screen sections, and then shut it down. “J, how does it look now?”

“I am reviewing archival footage, and it appears that Clint Barton is now visible to my processors. I will compile pertinent video and security tracking to get an idea of his movements during his entire employ here.”

“Good, one problem fixed,” Tony cracked his neck and shook out his shoulders. “Now, any idea who took me yet?”

Sadly, Tony had a lot of enemies. They went back to work.

ccCcc

“This is not who you were hired to bring me.” The disappointed, whiney tone greeted Clint as proper awareness returned. It felt like a slow awakening, shrouded with the vague sense of movement and muffled tones. He wasn’t ready to pry his eyes open just yet, but he was able to finally focus on what was being said, at least through his right ear. 

Fuuuuuck he hurt. 

Lying on his back, his arms were still cuffed behind him, putting a sharp strain on his shoulders while his head pressed into cold ground beneath. His feet were free, which was an amateur move he was more than okay with. He didn’t think anything aside from his nose, and maybe a rib, was broken. His arms were slightly numb from their position, his wrists ached from the strain, his stomach burned with every inhalation and his face was a mass of throbbing heat, no doubt from the bruising. He bet he looked pretty as a plum. He cracked his eyes open with an effort he was not impressed by, and was rewarded with a tall, skinny man in a dark suit pacing over him. Lovely. He could make out a pair of shiny, navy-coloured dress shoes with unnecessarily pointy tips that kept approaching too close for general comfort. This must be the Bossman. 

“He used this device,” a deeper, familiar, voice explained flatly. The sound of shuffling drew Clint’s attention. Not far beyond the boss was the leader that had taken such joy in tenderizing Clint’s face earlier. One of the window washers stood stiffly beside him, both of them still decked out in what passed as their field uniform, sans masks, though Leader was wearing a fresh shirt. “It made him look exactly like Stark. He’s wearing an expensive suit and shoes. He spoke like him, he walked like him.”

“I’m hearing excuses, and yet my bank account is substantially lighter and I still don’t have the man I wanted!” The displeasure was obvious, and the voice held an edge of self-importance that confirmed he was definitely the Boss. Clint felt a stirring of amusement at the guy’s irritation, which experience told him would only last until the next beating began, but he’d always been the type to take the wins where he could. 

Glancing around quickly at what was in his visual range, Clint learned they were in a fancy garage, or at least in a port used for cleaning cars. The ceiling was twelve feet high and there were two walls bordering either side of them to contain water spray, but the ends of the space were open with enough room to easily drive vehicles through both sides. He’d put money on the area beyond being a large garage. He’d also bet there were some luxury cars and a fancier set of garage doors not too far away, which meant freedom. He considered this as he took in the hoses that hung on the wall behind the guns-for-hire, along with a sturdy wire shelf laden with an organized assortment of car cleaning tools. A black pressure washer sat neatly beside the hanging hoses and there was a large decorative drain in the blue and white speckled concrete floor, not far from Clint.

Not the most welcoming place to wake up.

“You knew the risks of failure were high if we extracted him from the Tower. You insisted on it anyway,” Leader stated evenly, regaining Clint’s attention.

“Yes! Because he needs to know that I can take him from there. I can take him from wherever I want! Any time I want! Because I am better than him. Only now, now we have this…person here instead and I am not happy. Not happy at all. I was informed you were professionals.” Oh boy, that was definitely a dig at the snatch-and-grabbers and Clint was well aware that they would not be pleased by this. He didn’t think they’d retaliate by making their employer take the snide words back, but he also hadn’t really had a great deal of time to get to know them.

“We are, Sir.” Leader was keeping his calm. “It is an unfortunate aspect of our business that things sometimes go wrong.”

“Yeah,” the second merc cut in, grumpy and defensive, “and nobody expected face-shifting holo-imagers to be in play.”

“This is Tony Stark’s building! You should have been prepared for holo-imagers, clones, and fucking bio-molecular-reorganizing transporters. I provided everything for this job: the building schematics, the day-passes, the security clearance, the invisible transport, the distraction that took the Avengers away! All of it! All you had to do was get me Stark.” The Boss dug his fingers into his hair and pulled for a moment in frustration. His hair stuck out in disarray that was not dissimilar to Clint’s own after a bad night’s sleep. 

Overall, the guy came across as more tantrum-prone than scary-boss, so Clint was guessing he was used to throwing money around to get his way. He also clearly had some kind of personal beef with Stark, which would make sense, because the only reason a person would try to kidnap him from Avengers Tower directly instead of, say, when his defences were down at his Malibu home, or he was on his way to a casual business meeting somewhere, was someone who wanted to make a point.

Clint looked at the two mercenaries who were the focus of the boss’s irritation, both faces stony masks clearly designed to hide their lack of respect. Leader noticed Clint watching them through his cracked eyes and his nostrils flared in irritation but otherwise he didn’t change his demeanor.

“If you think I’m going to pay you after the millions you just lost me, you better think again.”

“You agreed to the risks and understood the terms prior to our departure. I suggest you honour the agreement we made,” Leader advised, his tone bland and polite. The boss spun around from his pacing and glared at him a long moment. Leader was unfazed. The boss exhaled long and loud through his nose, and then turned his attention upon Clint. Clint, with his hands cuffed behind his back and exposed on the floor, was not particularly happy to have his attention. He’d rather remain ignored like a lumpy floor mat.

“You,” Boss huffed, and then in a few quick steps he was by Clint, lifting a pointy-tipped shoe and delivering a harsh stomp to his gut. The force of it stole his breath and Clint curled over tightly to his side, forcing himself not to panic as his diaphragm took its time to relax enough to pull in fresh air. The sudden sharp pain made his vision momentarily shift to the familiar, shocky white, while his body adjusted to the damage. He definitely had a broken rib now. Lying on his side he didn’t close his eyes after the attack, needing to see if another one might follow. It looked like the first kick was enough to calm the man, as he ran a hand through his hair and rolled his shoulders. “Why are you important?” he demanded. 

Clint remained still, and didn’t look up. “I’m not,” he huffed out, and coughed. “Just a custodian.”

“A custodian,” he scoffed. “You must be worth something if you’re carrying around this level of tech.” He flapped a hand at the second mercenary, who came over and held out the now-broken holo-imager. Bossman snatched it from him.

“Would you believe me if I said I stole it?” Clint’s voice was thick because of his clogged nasal cavities. He hated having a broken nose.

“No,” Bossman glared. “Why are you important?” he asked again, and Clint uncurled enough to look up at the guy with less strain in his neck. Clint considered him more carefully, working around the throbbing that currently lived inside his entire head. He looked familiar.

“Wait,” Clint blinked up at him, trying for harmless, “aren’t you that guy who’s planning to build that space resort?” he asked, and he might not be in ‘the know’ but he’d eavesdropped on enough Stark employee conversations the last half-year to start putting this entire shit-show together. “But you can’t figure out how to make your own sustainable energy source?”

“Answer my question!” Boss heaved his foot back and drove the tip of his boot into Clint’s stomach hard enough that he was simultaneously struck with the need to breath and vomit, and couldn’t accomplish either. He curled in tighter, the unforgiving floor dug into his left shoulder and the metal around his wrists pulled sharply. The moment he got his breath back he laughed.

“Stark predicted it would take you about fifteen years to figure it out based on your current research trajectories,” Clint wheezed out. “And another twenty before you’d have the resources to build a livable space resort. Fucked your stocks up big time when those comments were leaked.” He looked over at the mercenaries who were watching, one bored and one sadistically amused. “You guys do a credit check before you took the job?”

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with.” The boss was practically spitting he was so angry. “You’re a friend of his.” He squatted down, elbows resting casually over his knees and the manic energy was way too close as far as Clint was concerned.

“Absolutely,” Clint agreed without hesitation. “Stark and I are practically besties.”

“I don’t recognize you, you’re clearly not in his inner circle.” The guy cocked his head and looked Clint over. “How old are you, eighteen?”

“Stark likes them young these days,” the second Merc snorted, but shut-up quick at a look from Leader. The boss didn’t seem to hear, or care. He reached forward suddenly and grabbed Clint’s nose. The pain from the pressure on the break was near blinding, radiating up into his forehead and bursting across his cheeks and the base of his skull. Boss released him and looked at the blood now smeared on his fingers in distaste before he wiped it on Clint’s white button up, adding to the mess already there.

“Tell me your connection. Tell me why you would sacrifice yourself for that self-involved egotistical drunk,” he demanded. 

Clint was pissed, because his eyes were watering now in reaction to the pain and he could taste the blood forced from his nose into the back of his throat. It was gross. It was never not gross.

“Sacrifice myself?” Clint spit the blood out of his mouth onto the shiny gray floor. “Nah, you got it wrong. It was just a case of misidentification. That’s what you get when you hire subpar contractors.” Clint grinned with bloody teeth at the men still wrapped in Kevlar and weapons.

“What the fuck would you know about it?” the more temperamental of the two mercs snarled, but Leader was frowning. Clint kept his attention on the asshole that organized this entire thing.

“I wouldn’t know anything about it,” Clint answered and coughed, the ache in his gut flaring up, his rib a sharp stabbing pain with every breath. “Like I said, I’m just the janitor.”

“Your jokes are not amusing,” the Boss decided. “I’ll figure out who you are, and then I’ll send your head back to Stark in a—”

“Stark doesn’t give a fuck about who I am,” Clint scoffed. “Just like you don’t give a fuck about the guys you hired that didn’t walk out of his tower. We’re just chum to people like you.” He looked at the frowning mercenary as, beside him, the other one stood practically vibrating tension.

“Chum” the boss sneered, “is not allowed access to confidential technology this advanced.” He held out the holo-imager and shook it in Clint’s face, the broken end dangling and sliding against his blood smeared cheek.

“It was just lying around. Seemed like a good idea to grab it at the time,” Clint said, and was not entirely surprised when the Boss did not like that answer. He turned on Clint without warning, raising his foot and stomping on his upper arm, one, two, three times and fuck if that didn’t suck the air out of his lungs and make his vision blur, his body rocking with the force of it. Boss stormed away a few steps, breathing deeply as he fought to regain control. Clint forced himself to not panic as his body took a moment to allow him a breath after the unexpected attack, and then relaxed as he finally sucked in enough oxygen. He hated to admit it, but the shitty years in his life had at least taught him to regain control quickly in situations like this.

“Tell me boy,” Boss snarled as he twisted on his heel and stomped back beside him. Clint sneered up in response. “Is your life worth so much less than his?” Boss dug his hand into Clint’s hair and pulled sharply, clearly not intending to let go. Clint struggled awkwardly to follow the grip until he was on his knees, bent forward slightly in a forced show of submission. He didn’t have to fake the grimace of pain at the movement. Boss yanked his head back, apparently not interested in a meek showing, putting massive strain on Clint’s neck and chest as he struggled to remain on his knees. It made breathing pretty difficult. “Is it his money or his self-important ideals that’s driving your loyalty?” he snarled in his face, and then released Clint to glare down at him, clearly expecting an answer.

Clint breathed through his mouth, considering the question. His ribs, arm and face, and generally his entire body, fucking ached. Who knew handing yourself over to a power-hungry inventor would hurt more than fighting off a clan of assassins? At least he hadn’t started stiffening up yet, because that brought a whole different level of pain when it came to broken ribs.

“His money has its merits,” he admitted hoarsely, because it was basically the entire reason Clint was in this situation right now, “but loyalty is a fucking joke. Loyalty gets you dead. I’m not interested in being dead.”

“This is pointless,” the lead merc cut in, drawing the boss’s attention a moment, clearly impatient. “Decide how you want to proceed, and let’s deal with this.”

“You don’t tell me what to do,” Boss twisted around on his feet and snarled angrily at the man. “You fucked this up after I set up the smoothest operation—”

“We don’t know who this guy is,” Leader interrupted with a nod at Clint, his face hard. “We don’t know his motivations, we don’t know his skills, we don’t know what happened that caused our operation to turn tits-up, and we don’t know what kind of bargaining power we have over Stark with him.”

“The answer is none!” Boss snarled. “We are not bargaining with Stark. This pissant is going to tell us everything we want to know, and then we’re going to show him exactly why he shouldn’t fuck with my plans!” 

Okay, Clint was done with this entire fucking day. He was done with this entire fucking year. He’d had enough time by now to figure out how he was going to play this situation, which was probably badly, but he had to be a realist. Stark wouldn’t come for him even if he did know how to find him. That’s not how things worked for Clint, and if by some miracle Stark did show up, it would be because he wanted something from him. Clint was fine with that, because his main reason for being here was to prevent Walter getting shot in the face, and frankly that was enough for Clint.

Walter was worth it, and Clint didn’t really have people he could say that about. 

The point was, like always, he had to rescue himself, which he had accepted when he’d made the decision to impersonate Stark. So he went to work on extracting himself from this stupid situation.

“Clearly,” the boss was still snapping mad, “he’s important.” Clint mentally snorted at that and shifted so his toes were braced against the floor in his too-small shoes. “I want to know everything he knows, no matter the method! And if you—” 

Clint tilted forward in a somersault, using the move to slide his arms smoothly along the back of his legs and over his feet so they were now cuffed in front of him. As the momentum of the roll carried him forward, he stepped on the heel of his right shoe so that it remained only half on his foot. By the time he was standing, he had grabbed Boss by the back of his pinstriped suit and twisted him in front of his body, protecting him from the guns the mercs had swiftly pulled and aimed. The boss gave a strangled cry of alarm. Clint ignored him and kicked his right foot forward. The shoe shot through the air, smacking into the face of the leader. He staggered briefly in surprise from the attack, but Clint had already been shoving Boss with all his strength towards them, and the distraction gave him the moment he needed to cover the short distance.

The Bossman shrieked and flailed and Clint shoved him the final step right into the second merc, who was obviously well trained, but not well enough for Clint’s speed. While boss was flying into the second mercenary Clint had already dropped into a low spinning kick and cracked the knee of Leader. It threw him off balance enough that Clint stepped forward and with a few sharp hand movements, he’d yanked the gun from his hand and promptly shot him in the head. He turned and repeated the action on the boss and the second mercenary with two follow-through bullets. They crumpled.

Fuck. These guys were supposed to be good. Frankly, Clint had expected a much bigger challenge. It would be massively embarrassing for them to go down so easily, if they were still around to care.

He raised the gun and fired twice more as two men came storming around the car-wash wall to investigate what the hell was going on. As they fell Clint was searching through the lead mercenary’s pants to dig out the key for the cuffs that were chafing his wrists something harsh. In moments, he had full movement back, and he rolled his shoulders, wincing at the pains angling through his gut, ribs, and arm.

His arm probably had a fracture; it was feeling more delicate than a deep bruise generally indicated and his hand was trembling in a way he couldn’t seem to steady with will power alone. No matter.

He scooped an extra gun from the floor, checked its clip, and shoved it in the back of Stark’s fancy pants. He looked around. He was pretty much done for hearing in the one ear, but his other hearing aid was still amped up so he should notice anyone approaching. Five bodies and Clint’s blood covered the floor. Aside from that, and some spatter on the walls, the place was immaculate. Listening hard for any more approaching hostiles, Clint went to the shelving unit and plucked the spray bottle of Oxyclean stain remover. He sprayed over every patch of blood he could see out of habit and wiped the bottle on the hem of the no longer white button up he was wearing. He hoped Stark didn’t want the jacket back, because Clint had no idea where it had gone.

He glared at Leader, the pool of blood still growing beneath his head, and then he stole his boots, because there was no way he was running around with one too-small shoe as his only foot protection. He grabbed the slightly bloody ball cap off the other dead mercs head and snatched up a pair of sunglasses in case he ran into cameras. It was a shit disguise, but it would have to do for now.

Cautiously, he stepped around the corner of the vehicle-washing bay to see that his assumptions had been correct: he was in a large, airy garage with floors that sparkled and five luxury cars parked specifically to show themselves off to visitors. Beyond that was a large vertical rolling garage door with windows that might generally let in the sunlight, but now appeared as black as the night beyond them. Clint considered it, considered the cars, and went to the one that appeared the most average: a steel-gray, matte-finish Mercedes Benz. He didn’t have to look for the keys, because they were sitting neatly in the cup holder between the front seats.

The wide garage door opened automatically as he approached in the vehicle, and just like that he was outside. In the country, apparently. Up ahead, just to the side of the driveway, was the aircraft that had flown him from Stark Tower to wherever the hell here was. Clint rolled down the back passenger side window as he neared it and was just in time to raise the gun behind the headrest of the passenger seat and shoot the mercenary that came running out the back of the jet (like an idiot) to see what was happening. Clint didn’t need to watch him go down, already focused on accessing the built-in map system with shaking fingers. The display lit up with his location clearly marked on the map.

He was in fucking Long Island. On what looked like a massive horse ranch. 

Speeding down a driveway that seemed to be more like a road, he took a few long, not-too-deep breaths, to try and steady his nerves. He was feeling antsy, fluttery in a way that was abnormal to his general reaction to a fight. He remembered being drugged and figured that might have something to do with it. 

He was exhausted, his energy reserves were close to drained and he had no time to rest.

When he finally hit the main road, he turned left without thought. It was nearing one in the morning, not too late to be alone on the 495. At this point he had few options to move forward with. He needed to get himself fixed up, which meant grabbing a few bandages and maybe getting his hands on some quality pain killers if he was lucky. He should probably see a doctor, and then he needed to disappear. If Stark and his Avenging buddies hadn’t figured out by now what had happened at the tower and what Clint had done to stop that mess, they would shortly. Plus, Stark would probably be aware of the few minor changes Clint had made to his security monitoring, and would no doubt be pissed.

More concerning, Clint would put money on Romanov and Coulson making the connections between Clint’s appearances during the Avenger fights, the rescue in Toronto, and Clint’s job at the tower. Which would mean he either was, or would very shortly, have his identity outed to SHIELD.

It was too bad really. Clint had liked his little bolt hole at the Tower, and he could admit easily enough in the harsh glare of oncoming traffic lights, that he’d miss the stability of his location, despite always knowing it could only ever be temporary. He’d miss Walt’s embarrassing family stories, Lea’s stories about her daughter, and the food Anton shared. This is why getting attached was stupid.

It was time to let it all go.

He sucked in a breath that made the right side of his chest protest sharply, and exhaled slowly. He needed to make one stop in the city first, and then he’d move on.

ccCcc

One clothing adjustment, two car changes and a stint on public transit saw Clint make it all the way to Barney’s room before the seven AM shift change. He was standing, or more accurately he was leaning heavily against the foot of his brother’s bed, well aware that he was nearing the end of his rope. He’d ended up taking a bus the final leg of this particular run, and nearly missed the damn stop because he was drifting in and out of sleep. He shook his head at his brother now, all tucked up cozy under his blue blankets, warm and healthy aside from, you know, being unable to wake up. For a moment Clint contemplated crawling onto the bed beside him, just for a quick nap, like when they’d been kids. That was how he knew he was really screwed up and needed some medical help sooner rather than later.

“Think this is it Barney,” he said softly, staring at his brother. God he was so pissed at this asshole. “My turn to leave you, you dick.” He swallowed thickly. “I’ve got shit arranged for you, so you’ll be fine. Just don’t fuck it up, because you sure as shit don’t deserve the effort I went to for this five-star accommodation, and I’m not saving your ass again,” he declared firmly, and then he turned and went to the locker that belonged to his brother. He opened the door as quietly as he could manage and crouched carefully down so he could reach the small safe he’d brought in a few months ago. He had to pause and brace his better arm—the one that had just been shot and not broken—against the locker’s frame to keep his balance for a moment.

He took a breath, steadied himself, and opened the safe. He pulled out the cheap, fake ID and the envelope stuffed with three-thousand in cash he’d managed to hustle the last few months for his end of the line emergencies. He knew there was a doctor that worked on the downlow out of Kindred Hospital in Morris County. He had his number; he’d call from a payphone when he got closer and should have enough cash here for at least the first payment for services. Clint swallowed thickly as he stood, cash in pocket, steadied himself from the sudden dizziness the movement caused, and took one last look at his brother. He left without another word.

It wasn’t until he made it to the stairwell that he registered the lack of personnel moving about. It was far too quiet for this time in the morning. He knew that because he’d spent enough time sleeping here after his car had exploded. He should have noticed that detail the moment he’d arrived.

Shit.

He calmly pushed into the stairwell, adrenalin spiking in his veins and giving him that familiar boost in energy as he moved quickly downwards, each step jarring. He exited onto the second floor, swept into the first room on the right and promptly cracked the window open. It was a tight fit to squeeze out, but he managed with teeth clenched and groans from the agony it caused locked in his throat. He was fortunate enough to have a drainpipe within reaching distance from where he hung from the window sill. In a full body leap he pushed from the sill and grabbed the pipe, barely managing to get a grip on its slick surface with his less injured arm and clamping it with the tips of his shoes. He grunted but didn’t hesitate as he slid down, because experience had taught him if you didn’t move fast enough on these things, they ripped away from the wall like a nail through wet toilet paper, and that landing was never gentle. His palm scraped over the metal strips that bound it to the brick wall. He landed unsteadily on the ground . His vision blurred and it took a moment to be able to resume breathing from the agony stabbing in his chest, the deep throb in his potentially broken arm, and the burning pull of torn flesh from the gunshot wound in his other arm.

The rain that had been soaking the streets when he arrived at Barney’s building had reduced to a drizzle, and it was just dark enough that he felt confident he could move through the alley without being spotted by whomever had put the nursing home on alert.

When he reached the alley’s mouth and was about to step onto the street, he was greeted with three Avengers walking steadily towards him. They were in civvies, but they were unmistakable.

Fuck fuckity fuck.

Clint backed swiftly into the alley and turned to run as fast as possible to the other end, which gave him the option of going left or right. Left was a dead end with an industrial garbage bin and brick walls that he would easily be able to scale if he wasn’t down an arm and a few ribs and feeling his energy waning dangerously. Turning right he was met with another road access past the length of the building, along with Romanov and Coulson.

Fucking SHIELD.

Clint snarled, looked behind him to where Stark, Rogers, and Banner were slowly approaching, hands out and empty. He was such a fucking idiot. He needed the money in Barney’s room, but he should have known they’d already be watching here for him; he’d given Stark a literal engraved invitation to find Barney. Clint twisted, looking around for other options that he might have a chance in hell of scaling to get out of here, and then backed away from the approaching threats until his back connected with the large metal dumpster. He’d ditched his gun in a postbox when he’d jacked the third car and hadn’t picked up a new weapon yet. Now, he pulled the pen he’d grabbed in the building from his pocket, and gripped it carefully in hand, prepared to make the most of it.

He deserved to get caught for such stupid, desperate planning. He’d brought this on himself, but that didn’t mean he’d make it easy for them. Standing as tall as he could manage, with nowhere to go, he watched the five people approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi All!! The final chapter probably won't be up until Wednesday (at the latest, I promise) but this one is nice and long! My love and well-wishes to all.


	10. Wouldn't That Be Something

Clint Barton watched them, his eyes hard and untrusting, the right one bruised nearly shut and the left one was blood shot and darkly ringed from strain, exhaustion, and most likely a broken nose. They had cornered him in the alley behind his comatose brother’s care center. He looked just shy of hissing at them as they moved slowly toward him, keeping a distance but not willing to let him slip away into the night.

“Do not approach him directly until he allows,” Natasha spoke softly from Coulson’s left, and Clint twitched his gaze to her, his cold stare unchanging.

“No shit,” Tony agreed, “My rabies shots are not up to date.”

“Shut up, Stark,” Coulson said mildly, but oddly loud, his punctuation slightly cleaner than its general standard. Tony frowned as he stepped up beside their SHIELD liaison, and noted that Coulson had faced Clint directly, and Clint’s eyes had jerked to focus on him as well.

“He may have a damaged arm,” Bruce mumbled softly behind them and Tony’s gaze drifted to the kid’s right arm which was hanging relaxed by his side, his hand clearly holding something just small enough that Tony couldn’t make it out. The hand of his left arm was tucked into the pocket of the too large navy rain jacket he’d donned, and now that Tony was paying attention something about its positioning looked awkward. The guy was probably sticking it in there to make it less obvious he was injured while giving it some support. The posture was aiming for casual, but Tony worked with very observant people. He figured the kid also knew that, but was still trying for the ruse regardless.

Coulson gave a slight head nod to acknowledge the medical assessment while Steve softly said “copy” from where he stood behind Natasha. Clint’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at the nod, the muted light of early morning cast dim light in the shadowed alley, and water from the accumulated drizzle flattened the guy’s blond hair to his head. He looked pale and shaky, and generally in rough shape. Considering the limp he’d had as they’d ‘chased’ him down, Tony was betting good money the arm wasn’t the only hidden injury.

“Clint Barton,” Phil announced, still louder and clearer than necessary. It immediately gained the guy’s attention.

“Who?” Clint tried, his voice hoarse and near inaudible, and he swallowed very clearly after uttering it.

“I’m sorry,” Phil said, still loud, and as calm and collected as Tony ever saw him, “but we had a comparative sample of your DNA from the attack at the tower, and that combined with your employment and request that Mr. Stark ensure your brother’s wellbeing as payment for your efforts, made your identity clear.”

“You’re sorry?” the guy rasped, unmoving with the dank giant garbage container at his back, and red brick wall behind it that. The alley was just wide enough for the garbage truck to come in for its weekly pick-up; it felt claustrophobic to Tony, standing three people wide. He didn’t blame this guy for being pissed at being cornered. He pulled out his phone and began tapping silent instructions for JARVIS to get proper medical prepped at the Tower immediately.

“I’m aware that you did not want your identity discovered this way, and I had hoped that we could meet again on more even footing,” Phil explained, still too loud.

“Not interested in meeting at all,” Clint said, and Tony snorted in disbelief. The guy’s gaze snapped to him.

“Please, you’ve been playing house in our tower for, what, eight months now? Nothing says ‘not interested in meeting you’ like shacking up in the broom closet and hoping no one will need to fetch the mop when you’re home.”

“Like you’ve ever held a mop,” the guy sneered, and gave a little cough, the kind that one was trying to resist but couldn’t suppress to save their life.

“The point is,” Phil said calmly, moving slightly and redrawing the assassin’s attention, “we’ve been wanting to make contact a long time, but not under these circumstances.”

“Great,” the guy sounded like he was talking with gravel in his throat, “then I’ll be on my way and we can arrange a coffee date. I’ll pencil you in next week.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Barton, I have concerns that if we allow you to leave now, you might not be able to make any meetings next week,” Phil said, and the guy’s untrusting gaze grew even sharper. Tony was keeping a close eye on his right hand, and he noticed the way his fingers rolled the item he was holding ever so gently. Repositioning it. They were all well aware by now how dangerous this guy could be, and he was slightly concerned. For Phil. Because clearly this guy liked Tony enough to sacrifice his life for him, so he wasn’t going to kill him now after all that effort.

“I’ll take my chances.”

“I made a mistake,” Natasha announced, and it was so unexpected that Tony nearly turned bodily to gawk at her. The tension amongst them ratcheted up a fraction, and Tony shifted his gaze to see Clint focus on her. He had yet to move more than a fraction since coming to a stop with the dumpster at his back. It was unnerving.

“I made a mistake,” she repeated, softer this time, in direct contrast to Phil’s loudness, but still clear. “When we met in Maldova, I misjudged the situation.” Her lips pressed together a moment, and she took a sharp little breath. “I misjudged you.”

“No you didn’t,” the guy growled through the sound of cars passing by behind them, wheels loud and sticky on the water soaked asphalt. “You got exactly what you wanted out of me.”

“No,” she disagreed, tone hard and eyes narrowed in displeasure. “What I wanted at the time was to get the information, and learn who Ronin was. I was looking for a partner.”

“Funny way of showing it, leaving a guy tied up and shot in the middle of an unheated warehouse in winter.”

“You should choose better safe houses,” she dismissed. “I sent an extraction team to get you before you bled out. They were intercepted, but you knew this.”

“Like they had a chance at getting me,” he scoffed, apparently personally offended at the notion.

“You were not the one who intercepted them,” she continued. “You were the one who, after deliberately getting in the way of a bullet meant for me, compromising yourself, then escaping and blowing up your building to remove all trace of yourself, came after me.”

“Clearly not, since you’re still alive,” he mocked, though it fell flat. Water was beginning to drip down from Tony’s bangs, and he had to blink remove it, not dumb enough to move and wipe it away, not when this guy was so hyped up on edge and ready for a fight. No sudden movements. Natasha had warned them before they’d run in here after him, and Tony listened.

“I missed the sniper,” she said flatly. “The one in the bleachers. I missed him, but you didn’t. You should have let him shoot me.”

“You weren’t my target,” Clint stated, fact, no emotional opinion of it one way or the other if you believed his tone and flat stare.

“No, but the sniper worked for your employer at the time,” Natasha stated. Clint said nothing, just watched her intently. “I thought you were the middle man when we met,” she continued after a pointed moment. “You played it well. I should have known Ronin wouldn’t work with anyone.”

“You grew soft working for SHIELD,” he said with his same emotionless tone. “People like me don’t have partners.”

“Partners betray,” she said, and again he had no reply. Tony felt like they were having three conversations here. Phil was standing between Tony and Natasha like he was perfectly content with the way of things, while Steve and Bruce stayed back a few feet. “I realized you were Ronin only after we discovered the dead assassin in the bleachers, which was after we found our injured agents along with their dead attackers and your destroyed safehouse. I failed that day.”

“You got what you wanted,” he said again.

“No. I lost what I needed.”

They stared at each other. And stared some more. Clint was breathing hard and clearly trying not to display it. It was during this intense stare down that Tony finally noticed the small stain of red beginning to form beneath Clint’s dangling right arm. Well shit. They knew he was injured, but this was getting ridiculous.

“Hate to break up this extremely comfortable silence, but I have concerns that you’re going to pass out from blood loss soon,” he said to Clint, who had turned his sharp gaze back on him, eyes not quite meeting his own as he spoke.

“I’m fine,” the guy said, easily and without hesitation. There was a very heavy moment of silence.

“Yeah, I’ve heard you say that before, and sadly I believed you then. I know better now.” Tony looked at him, trying to spot other obvious injuries aside from his whole face, and very carefully ignored the edge of guilt that curled warm in his throat.

“Not your problem,” Clint said, and he sounded like he truly meant it. Just like last time.

“Kind of is, seeing as it should be me bleeding out while you are off doing sneaky custodial genius things on my research and development floors.”

“Your concern is appreciated. It would be more appreciated if you’d all leave so I can deal with it.” The guy relaxed a bit, putting on a more affable air, which was still just slightly cooler than glacial so it was a wasted effort as far as Tony saw.

“We are talking circles,” Natasha sounded impatient now. “I owe you a debt. We will care for your wounds.”

“Right, and then after I’m healed I can enjoy a nice cozy ten-by-ten box on the Raft for my efforts.” Clint barked a laugh that cut like tiny, nearly invisible shards of glass. “No thanks.”

“We will not send you there,” she disagreed.  
“You work for SHIELD.” he spat the agencies title like it was the worst cuss word he could find.

“SHIELD is not the problem.” Phil said calmly.

“We have nothing more to talk about,” Clint disagreed, and seemed to tense up without moving.

“I have some things to discuss with you, actually,” Tony said, and Clint focused on him. “Many things. Nice things,” he tagged on when Clint’s eyes narrowed and the kid might be passing out in slow motion before them, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still dangerous. “Let me help.”  
“What’s the cost?” he asked through clenched teeth, and Tony wanted to bash his own head against the wall because it would be more pleasant than this entire conversation.

“How about I owe you,” Tony said, sincerely, if a bit coolly.

“You already provided a job and shelter and food. You owe me nothing,” the kid said flatly. Like it was completely reasonable that he sacrifice his life for Tony because he allowed him to mop his floors and have a couple muffins and coffee on the house. “You would have taken care of Barney. We’re even.”

“You are giving me an ulcer,” Tony decided.

“You will go to the Tower for medical aid,” Phil said, rejoining the conversation and drawing a distrusting glare from the assassin. “I will report that we lost you in the chase, like we usually do. Mr. Stark has excellent surveillance and will be able to keep you safe and under the radar. SHIELD does not need to know your whereabouts or condition.”

The disbelief painted plainly on Barton’s face was nearly painful. He was clearly ready to collapse right there into the thin puddle at his feet, and he was having none of this bullshit.

“You’re SHIELD.” He once more pointed out the obvious, but his legs finally began giving out on him. It was awful to watch as he struggled to stay on his feet, keep a straight face, and keep his eyes on them as his body literally refused to hold him up any longer. He sank down to the pavement in slow motion, inch after laborious inch, struggling to remain standing until his knees hit the pavement. Still, none of them made a move towards him. He was breathing harder, panic beginning to set in, and Tony could see the understanding of inevitability in his one mostly open eye.

“You have our word, you will be safe,” Phil said, and then lifted his hands and slowly waved them around in a strange formation that Tony recognized was sign language but had no idea what it meant. Barton did not like this at all.

“Fuck you,” he snarled, but his hand opened and the object he was holding fell to the ground. He began to tilt forward, and Natasha was by his side, quick as lightening, to stop him from smacking down face first. She was very careful with how she placed her hands, but it became pretty clear after a moment that the guy had passed out, so he wouldn’t care at this point.

“I have medical standing by,” Tony announced as Steve stepped in and, without ceremony but with extreme gentleness, arranged and lifted Barton in his arms with Bruce and Natasha’s direction.

cCc

Sam stood beside Tony as they looked over the projected holo-scan of Clint Barton’s, aka Ronin’s, injuries. Natasha was seated behind a laptop at a table a few feet away, and Phil was standing near the door, arms crossed and face blank. Tony was tilting his head this way and that at the image, like he wasn’t quite making sense of what he was seeing, and Sam frankly just had a general feeling of ill settled in his chest.

Tony let out a breath.

“So, you’re saying the injuries marked in red are current, ones in green are mostly healed, and the blue bits are passed injuries.” He looked at Dr. Cho as she stood to the side, calibrating her healing machine to use on Barton. She looked over at Tony, sparing him the briefest consideration before nodding curtly and going back to her tapping.

“Detail his current injuries please,” Phil ordered, and the projection of Barton lost all the green and blue highlights, leaving multiple sections of his body highlighted in red. Sam took a moment to appreciate that the scan had at least allowed the man to keep his pants for this show-and-tell.

“Minor concussion caused by one or more impact with his head; nasal fracture that is fortunately not displaced; right humerus fracture caused by multiple impacts, bruising pattern indicates from a shoe. A bullet graze to his upper left arm. A stitched laceration just above the graze was torn open. There is a minor tear in his liver caused by repeated blunt force trauma from which he is bleeding internally. He has a fractured rib and several severely bruised intercostal muscles. Multiple deep tissue bruises on his torso and face, minor contusions and bruising around his wrists, minor dehydration, he is borderline underweight and clearly exhausted. All of this combined with extended stress of trauma and recovery from lingering sedatives found in his blood work led to his collapse. Aside from that he’s fine.” She went back to her tablet, tapping away as the four of them stared at the image of Barton, of Clint, in a heavy silence.

“Okay,” Tony said after a long moment. “Now how about some more details on all those past injuries,” Barton’s image flipped blue, and Sam’s attention was drawn to a marking his thigh that could have been the bullet wound. Maybe it was the one he got when Natasha had met him. Then again, there were too many blue marks to narrow it down, and while their severity wasn’t obvious at first glance, some of them had clearly been worse than others.

“No,” Phil firmly shook his head before Dr. Cho could follow the request, “those aren’t our business.”

Tony spun to glare at the man but Sam was relieved when the holo image disappeared altogether.

“But they could be” Tony said in a soft tone that was rarely heard from the man, and Sam looked at him with worry, because he recognized the tone: it was the ‘I’m going to live up to my team name’ tone, but with a heavy edge of ‘this is personal.’

“He won’t thank you for that,” Natasha said, not looking away from what she was typing.

“His thanks is the last thing I want,” Tony growled and oh boy, Sam hadn’t actually realized how attached his friend had become to Barton.

“You go and try to fix the shit in his past, which I will put good money on he doesn’t want anyone to know about, then you’ll turn him from whatever he is now into an enemy,” Sam said softly, not daunted by the intense gaze Tony set on him. Tony’s lips thinned as he pressed them together, frustration just one of the mix of volatile emotions on display. He exhaled sharply, nodded and turned to leave the room.

“Where are you going?” Sam asked, wondering if he should accompany Tony. None of them were particularly pleased by what the scans had taught them about Ronin.

“To get Barney Barton the best medical care money can buy,” he growled and stomped out of the room. Sam relaxed and made no move to follow.

cCc

His mouth was sticky, gummy and dry. His tongue felt stuck between his top teeth when he moved it; thick and heavy. He swallowed and pressed his lips together, recognizing the combination of dry yet tacky feeling as coming out of a deep sleep. He started to consider this, his mind adjusting to being aware with absurd slowness. It was a distantly familiar feeling. Drugs. Drugs put him out this deeply. He kept his breathing as steady as he could and considered his situation.

He was on something soft, he was warm, his body was heavy with the understanding that movement would most likely bring the sharpness of injuries to light. With great effort and forced calm Clint ignored his increasing anxiety and made himself remember how he came to be here, wherever here was. He’d been checking on Barney, but more specifically he’d been getting the only stash of cash he had so he could get some shady doctor to fix him up. Then the Avengers had arrived with Romanov and Coulson.

Shit.

Clarity rushed back and his breathing hitched with the realization that sound was a dull echoed muffle; his hearing aids had been removed. He cracked his eyes open, needing a visual. The bright light hurt; his focus was taking too long to sharpen. There was a window on his right with curtains pulled half closed, but the sunlight shining through was spotlighting his face.

On his left, something moved.

Clint didn’t wait to confirm what it was, just braced himself for pain and rolled to the right to put space between himself and the possible danger. He promptly fell out of the bed he’d been in. The fall was barely two feet, but pain in his gut, arm, and ribs flared sharply. His right foot was tangled in a sheet and he yanked it out viciously to settle on one knee with the bed between himself and the possible aggressor. He had the pillow in his one hand, ready to use it however he might need, and glared.

Walter and Anton were five feet from the other side of the bed, seated in metal chairs, facing off against each other over a rolling hospital table. A worn wooden chess set sat between them and Walter was clutching a lighter brown bishop between three fingers, as though he’d been mid-capture. He was frozen in place, his eyes wide and worried, staring at him with the near awkward concern Clint never knew how to deal with. Anton was glaring at him, and that was more comfortable; more familiar.

Clint shifted his gaze to take in the room, the door, potential weapons, and the fact that it was just the two men in here with him. No guards, no Avengers or SHIELD agents, no restraints locking him to the bed and no bars over the window behind him. It was the three of them, the furniture, and a godawful giant yellow helium balloon in the far corner with a smiley face in the center and ‘yay you’re not dead’ scrawled messily in black marker beneath its mouth. 

Clint swallowed, mouth still aggravatingly dry, as he set his attention on the two before him once more, making sure he was braced for quick movement and ignoring the burning pain biting at him in several places. It wasn’t as bad as it should be, so he assumed they’d given him top shelf drugs. Anger began to bubble in that space between his broken ribs and lungs.

“Where are the guards?” he demanded, or probably croaked, he couldn’t quite tell. Anton slowly reached up and tapped his ear, and then nodded at the bedside table two feet from Clint. There were two hearing-aids sitting there on a tiny silver plate, small and clean and most likely lined with a tracking device. He was aware that he’d lost one during the fight in the tower, but these looked like his latest set, so it had been found, or replaced. He’d have to get new ones again, because he doubted he could get his spares from his room. The thought of the entire process of ordering, paying and waiting for them was tiring and irritating. He looked back to Anton and Walter, who did not seem nearly concerned enough where they sat in their chairs waiting on him. Walter took a poised drink from a Stark Industries coffee mug.

Clint dropped the pillow and snagged the aids, pressing them into his right ear, then left. They felt more comfortable then he remembered, snugly settling into position, which just irritated him more. They’d probably be a pain to get out.

“Where are the guards?” he repeated, and the sound echoed through his head clearly, not too loud, perfectly tuned to his levels. He curled his fingers into the pillow again.

“Guards? Surely you don’t feel you need protection from us. We would never hurt you!” Walter was aghast, eyes widening in affronted sadness that Clint hadn’t been aware was an emotion that came with a facial expression. 

The pressure in Clint’s chest grew tighter and he stared at them as flatly as he could manage. “To protect you,” he snarled and took a breath to try and make his next words a little less hostile, because that had certainly sounded like more of a threat than a question. “Why are you in here alone?”

“We were playing cards,” Anton answered, and turned an irritated glare on Walter, lifting his chin slightly in indication. “He cheats. So now we are playing chess.”

“I beg pardon, but I do not cheat,” Walter turned his worried gaze from Clint to calmly address Anton. “It is not my fault you have four very distinct tells and do not understand the art of subtlety with cards.”

“He cheats,” Anton ignored Walter. “Even in chess, though I have not figured out how yet.”

Clint exhaled heavily through his nose and tried not to throw up from the nausea that was sitting behind the anger in his chest. 

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he pressed out evenly.

“Ask a stupid question, get no answer. You are smarter than you pretend, keep up.” Anton reached forward and moved a bishop, though it was clear to Clint he wasn’t actually paying any attention to the game.

“I am a dangerous man,” Clint said softly, “and I want to know who thought it was okay to leave you both in here alone.” Because when Clint found out he was going to make it very clear that these two should never be placed in a position of threat like this ever again.

“Mr. Barton,” Walter said, “you are clearly still suffering after-effects from your concussion, so we will be ignoring your misguided attempts to convince us that you would ever put us at risk. Especially after the lengths you went to these past days to secure my safety along with the safety of all the employees in this building.”

“Most likely much longer than the past few days for some.” Anton picked up a water bottle, cracked the lid, poured a stream into his mouth, closed it, and tossed it onto the bed. “You need fluid not from an IV. Drink,” he ordered. Clint did not move.

“I couldn’t care less about the people in this building,” he snapped.

“Lies and slander,” Tony Stark announced as he marched into the room with the forward momentum he carried himself with everywhere he went. “Obviously you like me best, though I have it on good authority that Walter is a close second.”

Phil Coulson slipped into the room after Stark, silent and unobtrusive. Clint immediately set half his attention on the SHIELD agent.

“Mr. Barton, how are you feeling?” the agent asked, calm and polite, while Stark practically vibrated around the room, though obviously taking care to remain close enough to the others that Clint didn’t have to look back and forth.

“Explain why you left two unarmed, untrained people in a room with a known assassin,” Clint asked, shifting slightly to alleviate the strain on his sore body and get a bit closer to the water bottle. It would be just as effective a weapon as the pillow.

“Please, like you’re a danger to us.” Stark waved him off.

“I could kill everyone in this room within five seconds,” he eyed Coulson and amended, “twelve seconds.” The agent’s lips seemed to twitch; amusement or acknowledgement, Clint didn’t care.

“But you won’t, and we know you won’t, so there’s no reason for concern. How do you feel?” Stark asked and focused his attention on Clint. It was a heavy, intense thing to have Tony Stark focus on him this way, like his answer was actually important. He didn’t like it. Especially with Coulson’s gaze just as intense from where he stood by the door.

“What's your endgame?” Clint asked instead, wondering how many armed guards might be staged in the hallway. He wanted to know how far away Stark’s Ironman suit, or even just a gauntlet, was for activation. He’d bet seconds at most. Clint shifted, preparing to move. The pain in his limbs was still sharp but surprisingly manageable considering he’d literally passed out at the feet of these people before ending up here.

“We’d like a chance to talk to you, to discuss how you’d like to move forward.”

“Forward into a ten by ten? Three hots and a cot? I think I’d rather check out.” Clint considered the tools he could use to escape out the window. Considered his chances of success before Stark and Coulson could interfere. The prison cell might be a better option than a twenty-story freefall.

“Stop,” Anton said, voice as flat as Clint had ever heard it, and Clint pulled his attention from assessing escape options to the shorter man. “Clint. Mr. Stark,” he nodded at the trillionaire practically rocking on his feet from just behind Walter, “brought in a specialist with a machine that mends damaged flesh. You will be sore for a few more hours now that you are moving and your nerves learn they are not damaged, but your injuries have been completely healed.”

“I didn’t agree to that.” Clint immediately looked at Stark. “I would have been fine without it.” He would not be in Stark’s debt for this and he glared at the man to make sure he understood. The guy rolled his eyes to the ceiling and shook his head in apparent exasperation before he exhaled sharply and levelled that piercing gaze on him once more. Clint met it unwaveringly.

“I owe you a hell of a lot more than a little healing mojo,” the guy said, all sarcasm vacant from his tone.

“You owe me nothing. I just want a clear path out of here, none of you need to deal with me again. Let’s make this clean and easy.”

“I am afraid I must admit that your departure would be rather upsetting,” Walter said softly. “Not because of any gratitude I feel towards you, though it would be remiss to dismiss it outright, but because I’ve grown rather fond of your presence Mr. Barton.” Clint glared at him and his calm, hopeful face that had a dark bruise spread wide over his cheek, and crusty, healing cuts at his eyebrow and lip. “I’ve said right from the beginning that I always had a good feeling about you, and I am pleased every time you prove me right.”

“Walt—” Clint started, and faltered, because who even talks like that to people they barely know? Clint saved his life a few times, sure, but no one ever wanted him hanging around after he did things like that and this was just uncomfortable.

“My girls made a card for you.” Walter gestured and Clint looked back at the bedside table to see that the piece of paper with random colours on it that he’d ignored earlier, was exactly that: a piece of paper with colours on it. This glance though, he could tell there was some structure to it that looked like stick people with big puffed out hair and explosions all around them…or maybe they were hearts. There were very crooked blue letters of varying sizes squeezed together saying: thank you for saving our daddy. “They wanted to visit you in person to say thank you for helping me. It would be a shame if you left before they had the chance.”

“Fuck off, Walt,” Clint snapped and glared at the manipulative bastard, whose hopeful gaze just seemed to get softer. The asshole.

“You see,” Anton said flatly into the silent room. “He cheats,” he grumped. 

Clint snorted despite himself. He was just so damn tired of so many things, and in all honesty, this was the hardest by a large margin that anyone had ever tried to convince him not to leave. He was aware of how pathetic that was and was also completely unimpressed by it.

“All we want is a conversation,” Coulson said again, from his spot leaning with false vulnerability by the door. “Come upstairs, hear us out, and then if you want to leave, we won’t stop you.”

“Right.” Clint didn’t bother to hide his disbelief. “SHIELD won’t stop me the moment I’m out the front doors.”

“SHIELD is unaware that you are currently in Stark Tower. As far as my organization knows, you disappeared after your escape from Mr. Beckinsale and his mercenaries.”

Clint stared at the man as he thought this over. If he wasn’t telling the truth Clint would learn about it pretty quickly whether he had a chat with these people or not. Everyone seemed pretty sincere, but Clint had learned a long time ago that sincerity could flip to betrayal with very little influence. It was not to be trusted. He shifted his stare to Stark, who raised both eyebrows but said nothing.

Clint’s ribs really were fixed. He should have figured it out when he woke up and dove off the bed that things weren’t right. Broken ribs were generally way more painful than this tight throbbing ache. Clint hated that he was feeling a bit grateful. And tired. He was so damn tired.

He looked back at Coulson, whose face was still neutral as he waited patiently. He looked at Anton who had his grumpy face on to hide his concern, and at Walter, who’s long hand had slowly stretched over the game board just behind Anton, very quietly pushing a chess piece into a different spot as he watched Clint earnestly.

Clint pretended not to noticeWalter’s actions, moved to stand fully, and went to the bedside table. He snatched the card, folded it in half, and tucked it between his back and the wasteland of his scrub pants. He stepped from around the bed, stopped, and then impatiently gestured at the door when no-one moved.

“We going to have this chat or what? And I want real clothes.” There were slippers by the door that no one suggested he put on as he followed Stark and Coulson out of the room. He didn’t look back at the two he was leaving behind. Nothing was said as he followed one of the richest men in the world and a secret government agent down the hall where they turned into an elevator nook that had large floor-to-ceiling windows and a fake potted plant in one corner. A glance outside confirmed for him they were still in Stark Tower. 

He didn’t comment when the elevator was already open and empty as they approached, and he didn’t comment as the two men moved to one side of the car and gave him as much space as they could. He glared at the numbers over the control panel as they kept going higher and higher, until they ended on a floor that was off limits to anyone but the Avengers and assigned special staff.

He stepped out of the elevator and into a massive living space. It was stuffed with couches and chairs, a gas fireplace, a dining table large enough to fit the entire zany clan from when he was a kid. And a huge kitchen. The thing had three refrigerators, two ovens, two dishwashers and an island with eight barstools sitting with the backs to the living room. On the other side of the dining table was a massive sliding door that led out to a balcony. He didn’t look far beyond that, as in the kitchen, sitting almost anxiously with his hand wrapped around a mug, was Steve Rogers. He watched Clint as they approached, and Clint made sure to stop well before the island. Stark and Coulson moved into the kitchen proper.

Rogers looked him over.

“You look better,” he stated, and Clint nodded to acknowledge the comment but said nothing. “You want something to drink? Coffee, juice, water?”

Clint swallowed, his throat thick with thirst, but he ignored the question. He hated the vulnerable feeling that was sitting in the top of his chest as he stood in scrubs and socks in this palace of a communal living space.

“I’m fine. Say what you want to say,” he practically growled out. Nobody reacted to the edge in his tone, but the elevator dinged, and he turned his head sharply as the doors slid open and Natasha Romanov strolled in with a large black bag in one hand. She stopped ten feet from him, placed it on the floor, and moved away.

“Clothes and boots,” she said. “There’s a bathroom just down that hall on the left.” She nodded and moved into the kitchen, heading for a cupboard. He considered the bag and the people, and then grabbed the bag and found the washroom.

Generic boxer-briefs, black cargo pants, dark red t-shirt, brown jacket, black boots, socks, a boot knife with a concealment holster and three small throwing knives in a sheath that would clip easily in his pants’ pocket. He stared at the weapons. He took a deep breath and started to change.

cCcCc

“So, were you this difficult to talk to when SHIELD first approached?” Tony asked Natasha as soon as JARVIS informed them Barton had sealed himself in the bathroom.

“No,” she answered easily as she filled a glass with water and moved to sit by Steve. They were at the far end of the kitchen so Barton would have more distance between them. “I had already cut ties to my former handlers. Fury had approached me once before, so I looked into SHIELD and approached him when I was ready.”

“What she isn’t saying is that she broke into Fury’s office and when he came in and found her sitting behind his desk she told him she would begin training the next day and her terms were in her file on his desk.”

“You sat in the man’s chair?” Tony saluted her with the pack of cashews he was picking out of.

“Just the once,” she said with a small grin.

“So, how many weapons did you give him?” Steve asked, and their conversation sobered a notch.

“Enough to not feel naked,” she answered, and Tony looked to Phil, who seemed unconcerned as he doctored a cup of coffee, so he let it go. 

Tony wasn’t self-impressed enough to think he understood how to handle Clint Barton, the apparently not-an-intern but in fact a fairly renowned and definitely feared assassin who barely looked like he’d begun shaving. The background check he’d had JARVIS do, along with SHIELD’s reports on Ronin, painted a pretty clear picture of competence, intelligence, and ruthlessness.

All Tony had seen as the doctors had fussed over the kid’s unconscious body in the medical wing of his tower, was loneliness. If there was one thing Tony could probably understand about this kid, it was loneliness.

“I’m hungry. Anyone want Hakka? I could murder a plate of chili-chicken right now,” he muttered and stuck his head in the fridge, ignoring the pre-made shakes he always had on hand for a quick fix.

“It’s ten in the morning,” Steve pointed out and Tony leaned around the fridge door and raised an eyebrow. Steve considered for a moment and then, “Don’t forget the Manchurian chicken and some pakoras.”

Steve could always be counted on to add to any order, why he ever bothered to protest anymore was truly lost on Tony. He shut the fridge door and absolutely did not startle to see Barton standing in the entrance way to the kitchen, silently watching them. He frowned, opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, then crouched down and rolled it across the floor to him. It came to a gentle stop at Barton's shiny boot covered foot. Barton looked down at it, failed to destroy it with the power of his glower, and then looked back at Tony.

“Seriously?” he muttered.

“Tony, what the—” Steve began.

“Shh—” Tony held out a hand in slow warning to his team. “First step of luring in strays is to get them water and food. JARVIS?”

“A delivery order has been placed for lunch, Sir.” JARVIS promised dryly. Tony could practically feel Steve looking up at the ceiling for patience.

“You really are always an asshole,” Barton muttered, and Tony grinned, pretty sure he wasn’t imagining the minuscule hint of approval in the kid’s voice.

“It’s why we get along so well,” he agreed easily, and then caught the bottle of water as Barton kicked it at his face. It was a gentle kick, clearly made with the intention of being caught, but with just enough forced to be a warning. Tony twisted the cap off and drank, then placed it on the flat surface of the island and casually moved to stand on the opposite side of it from Barton.

Tony hadn’t needed Natasha and Coulson to give him advice on how to try and put the kid at ease. Everyone on their team had more than enough experience with difficult cases. Bucky Barnes had been Tony’s own introduction on how to make traumatized and extremely dangerous assassins feel safe. They would give him space. They wouldn’t press him to drink anything, though Tony figured he would have already taken his fill at the bathroom faucet. They wouldn’t block exits, crowd him, or make sudden movements. This was not something Tony had practiced with Barton when he’d been a low-man on the Stark Industries totem pole, and he doubted he really needed to practice it now. But the kid—the man—was on edge, recovering from injury, his identity was blown, and he obviously had little trust to give. With that in mind he dropped his joking manner.

“First things first,” Tony said before anyone else could start, “Your brother is still in the facility you moved him to, but with your permission I have three other top-rated care-facilities specializing in head trauma and long-term care. I am arranging for top specialists in numerous medical fields to examine his case and see if there is anything they can do. This will only happen with your explicit permission and I expect you’ll want to look into the facilities personally before making any decisions.”

Barton frowned at him.

“Why?”

“Do I need to point out that he was your final request before you went off and sacrificed yourself for me?”

“For Walter,” Barton corrected blandly, which Tony wasn’t fool enough take personally.

“Obviously also for Walter.” Tony waved it away as unimportant. “I am aware that you don’t want anything from me, but at the very least I can ensure your brother’s continued care. This will happen whether you are here or not. Good guy or bad guy. Dead or alive.”

“SHIELD is also accountable to your brother.” Coulson stepped in when Barton was using tense silence as his method of not knowing how to respond to Tony. “His standard of care and treatment after his injury was unacceptable and is also not how we operate. A full investigation is under way into how he ended up where he did after his injury. The individual in charge of his case has been suspended pending the investigation results. As well, a deposit has been made into the bank account you registered with the care home to recompense the payments you made to ensure his continued care.”

“I don’t need your charity,” Barton said flatly. It was a toss-up as to whether he was pissed or just curious.

“It’s not charity. Your brother’s contract, when he became an agent of SHIELD, stipulates that medical and care costs accrued for injuries received in the line of duty would be covered within a standard. That standard was not being met. It is now. On behalf of SHIELD, I apologize for the negligent care he received.”

“It wasn’t you who put him in that dump,” Barton sneered. “How many other agents were given the same consideration for their loyalty to your organization after their sacrifice to the cause?” 

Ho boy, that was not a happy assassin. Tony knew Coulson hadn’t told Fury or Maria Hill that they had Barton, as promised, but when this was all cleared up, he’d make sure the two heard that little snippet. It was good for them to be slapped in the face with how little an assassin with apparently only one loyalty other than himself, thought of their honour. He was calling them out on being unjust to their own people and Tony kind of loved it. Just a little.

“We believe your brother’s situation was the result of a personal grudge,” Coulson admitted frankly, “but the investigation is looking into the care and treatment of every agent under our jurisdiction and new policies are being developed to ensure a situation like his never happens within our agency again.”

Barton considered this, standing apart from them, loose limbed and easy. Just like Natasha a moment before she took out a room of armed guards.

“I don’t care about your organization or how it treats its people. Barney’s taken care of now.” He cut cold blue eyes to Tony for a moment before looking back at Coulson. “He’s no longer my problem. What else did you want to say to me?” 

Well, that seemed cold. None of them reacted outwardly to the dismissal of the man’s only living relative. It was a flag, but they had no idea what kind so it would be looked into later. No doubt Natasha would take care of it, if Barton ever let her get close enough.

“We’d like you to consider joining our team,” Steve jumped in, simple and honest. Barton stared at him for a solid eight seconds. Tony counted.

“You’re joking,” the guy finally pressed out, sounding something other than angry for the first time since Tony had walked into his recovery room. He sounded surprised, and disbelieving.

“I’m not,” Steve countered. “We’re aware of your…eclectic workings in the past.” Barton snorted derisively. “I’m sure you’ve noted that our team is not exactly made up of individuals with squeaky clean histories.”

“Weapons designer for profit.” Tony stuck his hand in the air and then pointed a finger directly at himself. It took effort to let the guilt show. It was not his fault people used his weapons to hurt others, but it was his ingenuity that brought them into existence in the name of profit. He could now admit to himself he’d been numb to the suffering of others he never had cause to look at once, let alone twice. He liked to think he’d been doing a lot of good since then, but some days the scales still felt heavily tipped against him.

“Ex-agent of the Red Room and assassin for hire,” Natasha said frankly.

“I’ve done things in the name of country and security that I’m not proud of,” Coulson added.

“I’ve taken out countless lives in a rage as the Hulk,” Bruce chimed in, his voice tight and shamed and Tony turned around to see him sitting beside Steve. He must have snuck in from the balcony. He was getting stealthier.

Barton did not seem impressed by any of their hard admittances. He considered them, and then scoffed. He pointed at Bruce first.

“You did a stupid experiment that went wrong, but all your damage could be considered self-defense when the US military provoked you. Far as I can tell, and I’ve got my sources, Hulk only ever went into overdrive when he was directly attacked or needed to defend someone.” He pointed at Coulson. “Government sanctioned if I had to guess.” He nodded at Natasha. “Brainwashing and structured control and training from childhood that you broke free from. I’ve heard of the Red Room, came up against them once. Your choice was limited, and your killings were not completely under your cognizance. Same for Barnes.”

The kid shuffled lightly on his feet and squared his shoulders, chin lifting in ownership of his words. “I chose my path. I chose my marks. I determined who got to live and die based on my actions and I did it for profit knowingly. It is not the same.” 

Tony balked at that and glanced at Natasha, who earlier had expressed some of her theories that Clint Barton had been trained and raised in a way that may have been similar to the Red Room, but on a much smaller, more personal scale. The guy had run away from a group home with his brother when he’d been young. They hadn’t figured out anything more on his upbringing after that time. She didn’t react to Barton’s statement, so the rest of them did not debate it. What they needed was to gain the chance to debate it later.

“We’ve been aware of Ronin’s targets for a few years now,” Coulson spoke up. “Not all of them, I’m guessing, but the ones we do know of have certain things in common. Human traffickers, forced prostitution rings, kidnapping of children, murdered innocents, abusers too powerful to be punished by the local authorities. Then there are the individuals you are rumoured to have put the fear of god into, in order to stop them terrorizing numerous victims. Those would be the ones you didn’t think deserved to die but who needed to know it was still an option if they didn’t cease and desist.”

“I didn’t think vigilantism was something that flew with the renowned SHIELD organization, or the Avengers. If that’s the case, there are plenty of locals you could pick from. Daring ones with devilish antics even,” he pointed out blandly.

“Cute, word play,” Tony smirked, and Barton glared.

“It doesn’t fly with SHIELD,” Coulson agreed. “Mostly. You being a member of our organization would make your work more official.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Barton spit.

“Which is why we are offering you an alternative. Join the Avengers on a trial basis,” Natasha stepped in smoothly when Coulson seemed genuinely disappointed. “Discover for yourself if the missions we take part in are something you agree with in principal. Discover what it is like to have support, to have a home base, to have someone protecting your back.”

“I don’t need protection,” he snarled, and while that may be true, every one of them was aware of the physical hurts this man had suffered through the years. They’d seen the scans and some of the hidden scars during their emergency medical aid. They’d seen him collapse before them, determined to refuse any kind of help.

“You know what I mean,” Natasha said softly, as non-confrontational as she gets. Barton glared at her, the deep bruises of exhaustion under his eyes telling enough.

“You expect me to believe you actually want me on your team.”

“Absolutely.” “One hundred-percent.” “Yes.” Tony, Steve, and Bruce answered without hesitation.

“I am not enhanced in any way, I do not have a custom flying war suit, wings, magical Norse powers, a metal arm and extra strength, or healing mojo. I’m just a guy who’s good at killing.” 

Jesus, Tony thought, for all the bravado this guy had, did he really not get that being able to keep up with all of them on his own human physicality was incredibly rare? 

“You already have a sniper, you have an expert covert infiltrator, you have hand to hand combat skills and a master tactician.” He looked at Steve then, which Tony valiantly did not feel put out by. “Those are just a few basics, and you expect me, a virtual stranger, to believe you think I’d make a good addition to your clan?”

“Yes,” Natasha said simply. “We would be fools not to.”

“We don’t have a sword fighter,” Tony pointed out, because they didn’t.

“Your general reputation and ideology mean that my swords would probably be a little more deadly than your guidelines approve of.”

“Are you honestly trying to convince us you can’t win a fight without killing your opponent?” Natasha seemed genuinely curious.

“I typically don’t get into fights unless my intent is to kill,” Barton stated.

“Lie,” she countered, and he exhaled sharply in irritation but didn’t refute her.

“You’ve stepped in a few times and been a game changer for us since you moved here,” Steve said. “We haven’t thanked you officially for your help in those situations.”

“I wasn’t going to let your precious financier and SHIELD liaison die for no reason,” he scoffed.

“I am definitely more than a financier,” Tony argued immediately. “I also provide the witty repartee.” Clint gave him the typical blank stare that Tony was certain meant he was amused.

“While your assistance in Toronto was greatly appreciated,” Coulson rejoined the conversation, “I believe Captain Rogers was referring to several other incidents, such as the battle in Central Park.”

“I was in the neighbourhood.” He shrugged it off easily, and for the first time since learning who Ronin was, Tony considered that the guy really might have just been out in the park that night. With a bow and explosive arrows. Who just decided joining a deadly fight against an alien entity seemed like a good idea.

“You pointed out that we have people with your skills, and you’re not wrong,” Steve said. “But specializations or not, team or not, we can’t always be at every battle. Right now, Bucky is on the other side of the country training a team on the west coast. He is also only a part-time member of our team per his request, which means he is not always available. Also, every one of us brings something unique to the table. I have a feeling you have a lot more to offer than you’re letting on.”

“You can’t trust me. I’m unreliable.”

“Yet you showed up with no commitment and helped us numerous times. You stepped in when we were unable to and saved lives in this building,” Steve countered.

“This building fell under my protection the moment it became my workplace. I don’t let things that are to my benefit go to shit.” Barton pointed out 

And holy crap Tony knew the guy would be a hard sell but this was getting ridiculous. It was obvious to them he didn’t want to leave, but he didn’t know how to stay.

“It’s not a matter of whether we can trust you, because obviously we are willing to trust you enough to give a partnership between us a chance. You don’t trust us. Fine. Let’s see if we can work to change that,” Tony said, having lost patience. “Pretend this is a job with Stark Industries, only instead of cleaning and being a secret genius, you train with us, and occasionally fight alongside us—or in the shadows or whatever works for you. I’ll even give you an engineering space to work in, and you don’t have to share any of it with my company.”

“It would be nice to have another person to bounce ideas off of,” Bruce said, and Barton’s eyes narrowed dangerously between him and Tony.

“You making fun of me?” he asked softly.

Bruce’s eyes widened in surprise. “No, not even a little. Why would I—” Bruce cut himself off and frowned in consideration. “You must know by now we’ve figured out you were the one sneaking in suggestions and solutions on the research and development floors.” 

“And I will figure out how you managed to get a ghost protocol into JARVIS and if you do it again, I will flatten you.” Tony pointed at him warningly. Barton didn’t seem bothered. He looked slightly uncomfortable at being caught out, but not worried. “Plus, the designs for your arrowheads are frankly inspired and should be impossible. I don’t even know how you managed to make the ones you have without a dedicated facility.”

“How do you know about those?” Barton asked mildly, and Tony froze, realizing he had maybe gotten a bit carried away in his excitement.

“We figured out you’d been living in the building when we were determining what was going on. Natasha found your bunk,” Steve said.

Barton blinked at him, face paling slightly and a look of shame Tony never expected to see on his face flashed briefly before being locked away.

“We had to clear out your space, because aside from the chemicals we can’t leave unlocked for safety reasons, it’s not a good place to sleep.” Steve scratched at his wrist briefly, the only tell about how uncomfortable this made him. “Everything you had is still here and ready for you whenever you want it,” he hastened to clarify, trying hard not to point out that they had all figured out the renowned assassin Ronin was basically homeless and struggling to make enough legitimate and traceable money for his brother’s medical costs. Natasha had pointed out how difficult it would have been for the kid to work his ‘regular’ jobs when his transportation had been blown-up, and he couldn’t miss too many work hours or he’d risk losing his ‘legitimate’ income. They’d had two days of Clint being in a healing sleep to figure some if it out.

Frankly it was a security nightmare that he’d been given this much unintentional access in the first place. Especially as he hadn’t actually been trying to infiltrate the Tower or team. Barton had been given a genuine job offer after stepping in and saving Walter’s health, if not life. Tony had tracked down the footage of Barton yanking the man out of the path of a taxi. He’d watched it with the rest of the team in the Tower, all of them too curious to pass it up. Natasha said it was a genuine save on Barton’s part, and his unease with Walter trying to thank him was also genuine, as was his acceptance of the job. His background check for the job had been clean, if uninspiring, and everything about his hire was copacetic. The guy had been working the job with the sole intention of keeping a low profile and getting money to cover his brother’s expenses.

Ronin, a world-renowned assassin, working as a custodian to make ends meet. It was just…the custodian bit was fine, great even. Tony had great appreciation for people who helped keep his house in order. Tony just didn’t like everything else about the kid’s life. He had seen the bruises, he’d seen the ease with which the kid lived with them, and he hated that what he’d seen was most likely far from the worst of it. 

Barton broke the predatory stillness he’d settled into while thinking about what he’d just learned and rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. It would be almost endearing if the tension wasn’t still so tight he could floss his teeth with it. He looked at Tony directly, awkwardly, and Tony couldn’t help but wonder if it was a front, it was so different from all the mannerisms displayed to date. 

“I wasn’t going to live here forever, I just needed to get some things organized and, as far as safe houses go, it was probably the most secure I’d found.”

“Aside from the Avengers living here and potentially finding you at any moment,” Tony said.

“An unfortunate necessity,” Barton agreed. “But I only really needed to avoid one of you,” he looked at Natasha. “Well, two if you count JARVIS. Nobody else would think I was anything but a custodian.”

“I never thought you were a custodian,” Tony pointed out smugly, and shifted back to serious. “So, what’s the verdict? You going to give us a shot? Need to think about it some more? Want to take off?”

Barton looked blankly between them all, and then at Coulson. “I killed a lot of people a few days ago.”

“Taken care of. Apparently the blood evidence at the scene was compromised with cleaning solvents, and all security cameras had been switched off. Aside from that it was clearly self-defense. During the investigation we learned a few things about your abductor, Devon Beckinsale, that were rather concerning on a global level.” 

“You learned a few things?” Barton asked.

“Genuinely,” Coulson agreed. “No fabricated evidence. We’re aware he would have killed you, and he would have killed Tony had he abducted him instead. The mercenaries he hired were—not good people. We also believe your interference during the Tower’s infiltration saved several lives.”

“You’re reaching there, but whatever,” Barton dismissed, back to being unconcerned. Interesting. “To be clear, I was going to kill them all just for threatening Walter.” He flicked his gaze to Tony briefly, which felt inclusive enough that Tony was uncomfortably pleased. “I didn’t do it based on weighed evidence.”

“Noted.” Coulson didn’t seem bothered.

“I will not disclose or confirm prior jobs. I will not rat-out sources.”

“Acceptable,” Natasha said.

“I won’t kill anyone just because I’m told to. Any life I take is my choice.”

“Understood,” Steve agreed. “We work to avoid deaths in the field as much as possible. Killing our enemies is never our goal, but unfortunately it’s not always avoidable.” He pursed his lips. “You will not take a life when ordered not to.”

Barton considered this briefly. “Agreed. I do not work for SHIELD and will not take orders from anyone within your organization.” He looked at Coulson, who grimaced a bit at this, but nodded his head. Tony would put good money down that the man was already building a plan to get back on the kid’s good side. Clint shifted his gaze to Natasha, who nodded as well. SHIELD would have to work to gain any kind of trust from Clint, that was certain. Tony suspected there was more to it than the issues with the man’s brother, and the botched recruitment with Natasha the few years before, but it didn’t matter at the moment. “This includes joint operations with this team.”

“That’s more complicated. As a member of this initiative you will be expected to follow the chain of command. If we agree to a mission objective, or order from SHIELD, you will follow it with us,” Steve countered. 

Barton frowned at this and Tony wondered if they’d just lost him. He looked back at Natasha for a long time, their faces twitched and eyes narrowed, then Natasha nodded and Clint looked like he’d sucked on a lemon. 

“I’ll agree to that on grounds that once the mission is complete, if I find out the order was ill-considered or discover that I was purposely mislead, I will be walking away, no restrictions no penalties.” He did not add that if SHIELD fucked it up badly enough, they would have to begin looking over their shoulders with real concern. Clearly there was no love lost there.

“That’s reasonable and to be honest we all operate with that understanding. Nobody on this team is willing to be led by their nose, but as a group if we don’t have a general understanding of who is in charge than things can go wrong quickly in the field. Whenever time allows, we discuss all our options openly, in the field and off. We understand you’ve been working solo for a long time. There will be an adjustment period for all of us,” Steve explained confidently. 

Barton contemplated this from his safe distance across the kitchen, still tense but less imminently explosive. “If this whole team thing isn’t working for me, I’m gone.”

“We’ll let you get a head start,” Coulson agreed before anyone else could step in. “But any unsanctioned hits after leaving this team and we will be forced to track you and try to stop you on American soil.”

Clint was silent for another long moment. This kid and his dramatic pauses, yeeesh. He was almost worse than Barnes.

“How many people know about this?” He tapped at his ear gently. 

Tony had already forgotten about his hearing issues.

“Two of the doctors who treated you, the people in this room, Sam, Mr. Reed and Dr. Bayatullah,” Natasha said.

“SHIELD?”

“Only myself,” Coulson confirmed.

“I want the names of the two other doctors, and I want this kept quiet. I hear it’s been leaked to anyone else, including your boss’s,” he glared at Coulson, “and I’m gone as soon as I deal with whoever let it out.”

“Nobody cares that you—” 

“It will be kept between us,” Natasha cut Tony off, “You have our word.” 

Tony glared at her, then thought about how a man in Barton’s position would consider this a weakness. One that could be extorted by any number of enemies. He’d certainly done a great job of keeping it quiet in the first place, right up until Coulson somehow figured it out. 

“If I leave, Barney has immunity. The connection between us is kept quiet. You keep him out of my business altogether. You try to use him against me I won’t show.”

“He will be taken care of, no matter what, as he should have been from the start,” Coulson promised. 

Clint looked at him, and then to Tony, who nodded in agreement. He was all over it. The solemn vow seemed to be the final assurance needed and Barton relaxed a bit more. Tony wasn’t sure if it was real or fake relax. He’d put money on fake but couldn’t actually tell, which was frustrating.

“I don’t want to be a known element on the team,” Barton declared. “People find out, fine, but none of that media stuff and no public functions. And I’m not joining as Ronin, that will only bring problems. I do not work exclusively with anyone, and I don’t work alone with Black Widow. Not until I know you can be trusted,” he looked at her dead-on, challenging.

“You will give me a chance to fix things between us,” she stated, and after a moment he gave a slight nod with no genuine enthusiasm.

“Do you have a different moniker you want to use in the field?” Tony cut in to redirect. 

Barton shifted his gaze to stare at the fridge, and shuffled on his feet slightly, most likely to keep his knees loose as he’d barely moved the entire negotiation. He considered for another drawn out moment with lips pressed together, and exhaled softly before abruptly saying “Hawkeye” and glaring at them like they were going to laugh or something.

“I like it,” Steve said after a moment.

“I think Sam will chirp you for it.” Tony rubbed his hands together thinking of all the easy, easy jokes. Then he clapped, which disrupted the tense stillness of the room. “We’ll get the paperwork sorted out in the next few days. JARVIS will set you up with a training schedule so we can figure out how to work together. We’ll get on designing a new uniform for you, something with a mask so we can hide your features—”

“I’ll wear sunglasses,” Barton said.

“We’ll see,” Tony hummed.

Coulson rubbed at his eyes. “I need to inform my superiors of your location and agreement. You are under the protection of the Avengers now and will therefore not be apprehended by SHIELD,” he said, obviously pleased, and he moved to the elevators to apparently follow through on his plan. 

When the metal doors slid apart, Walter Reed was revealed to the kitchen. He stood there looking slightly abashed, yet unruffled, with a number of bags hanging from his arms.

“Forgive my intrusion. I was in the lobby when the delivery arrived, and JARVIS insisted it would be no bother to bring your meal up myself.” He looked hopefully at Barton.

The kid exhaled in what was definitely fake annoyance. “I’m staying for now, all right? So quit it with the guilt trips,” he grumped.

“I am, of course, very glad to hear it,” Walter declared as he came in and Steve moved to help with the bags.

Tony looked at Barton, who hadn’t moved from his spot. “I think I’ll call you Clint,” he decided, and Barton finally gave him the flat, unimpressed look that Tony was more familiar with. He couldn’t help but wonder what the guy was really thinking, but he could guess it was mostly tense and uncomfortable. Tony moved almost within arm’s reach of their newest member. “You want to get some food, or want me to show you where your room is?” he asked quietly, to which Clint blinked at him.

“My room?” he asked uncertainly, which was, again, a complete opposite emotion to the wary hostility. Tony could get whiplash if he wasn’t so used to his own personality.

“You’re a part of the team now, that comes with your own space. Your things are already there if you want to check them. Or we could grab some food and you can take it with you. Once you’re settled if you want to find a second place outside the Tower to stay that’s fine. We take shifts manning the Tower, so there will be stretches where it’s mandatory to overnight here, but Steve and Barnes have their own apartments in Brooklyn.” Tony effected a shudder at the notion and Clint kept staring at him.

“You already have my things in my room,” he repeated softly.

“Yeah, we were pretty eager to get you to stay. Thought if you maybe saw the sweet digs on offer before you stormed out it might change your mind, you know, if you didn’t join the team.”

“Here you are.” Walter came over and handed Clint a container of takeout with the lid firmly sealed. “A little bit of everything to see what you like. Now, off to your room, the doctors insist you get a decent amount of rest for the next few days.” Which was apparently the decision Clint wanted to make as he took the food and held it close to his chest with a nod of thanks. He didn’t resist as Tony led him back onto the elevator.

“Hey, Hawkeye,” Steve called before the doors closed, and Tony watched Clint look sharply out at the assembled team members. His wariness was exhausting. “Welcome to the team,” he finished, and beside him Bruce lifted a mug in toast. 

Clint’s lips pressed together, and he nodded once as the doors slid closed. 

cCc

Nothing was said as they went up two floors and Clint followed Stark out into another common area with couches and a huge TV. He listened carefully as Stark explained that there were common areas for everyone and places that required special access. “JARVIS can help you out with any questions about that,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand and Clint figured he was mostly talking to avoid the silence. The common area stretched long and had the floor to ceiling windows, the curtain walls, that wrapped the building at the far end. Off to either side of the common space, and along the wall with the elevators, were a few evenly spaced, solid doors. Stark led Clint to the door nearest the right side of the elevator and gestured for Clint to open it. Clint hesitated to walk in first and have the man at his back, but…fuck-it; he was tired and obviously if Stark were a threat, he would not have bothered healing Clint in the first place. Clint moved cautiously inside and looked around.

“You said room,” Clint said slowly as he took in the space. “This is an apartment. A large one.”

“Yeah, two bed, two bath, a small private gym, kitchen, living area, and whatever you want to do with the final empty room. I had the basics in here already, but obviously you can change whatever you want, JARVIS can help you out with that.”

“Right,” Clint muttered, spotting his belongings, and feeling generally uncomfortable with the entire arrangement.

“Look, this is the smallest apartment on the Avengers’ floors.” Stark said, and his careful tone set off warning bells for Clint, so he side-eyed the rich guy as he explained. “Bruce and Natasha figured you wouldn’t want a big place, and I get that this is larger than the standard apartment, but it’s the smallest I can do.”

“No it’s—” Clint hesitated, not knowing what to say because this was outside of his realm of experience and he felt awkward. Stark should not be apologizing for being generous, that was just messed up. “Look, it’s fine, or whatever. I wasn’t expecting this much.” 

“Well, I don’t know exactly what you want or need. Today’s the longest we’ve ever spoken,” Stark pointed out, “but I take care of my people, and like it or not you agreed to be on the team so this is what you get.”

“Sure you don’t want to throw a piece of fruit at me to make this a real welcoming party?” Clint put his meal on the dark kitchen counter and eyed his stuff, which had been laid out neatly on the dining table. He’d put good money on them having checked it all over thoroughly, but nothing appeared damaged and they’d left his clothes crammed messily in his duffle bag. It would have been an unimpressive pile of belongings, if not for the beautiful bow, arrows, and custom katana’s sitting front and center. Clint moved to them and ran his index finger over the bow’s riser. 

“I’ve recently learned that throwing fruit at you could be dangerous for my health. Full disclosure, JARVIS monitors all Avenger floors at a much higher intensity than the general Tower floors. All the common areas, labs, training facilities, garage, situation rooms etc. are constantly recorded. There are no visual monitors in our private apartments, but there is audio in every room. Feeds there are not recorded, but they are a safety feature and are set to alert for trigger words and raised noise that allows JARVIS to assess whether help is needed. It also means if you ever need anything all you have to do is tell JARVIS.”

“Yeah, I know,” Clint said without thinking, and tensed when Stark looked at him sharply, before the guy was rolling his eyes.

“Of course, you do,” the man sounded aggrieved, but he levelled Clint with a calculating look. “When you’re settled, I would like to know how you know this, along with all the juicy gossip.” 

Clint contemplated this, understanding it probably meant an in-depth security audit for the majority of the Tower. He nodded, because it was only fair. He took a breath and turned to face the man.

“If I owe you anything for all of this, I need to know. Now.”

“If anything, I’m the one that owes you. Twice over.” Stark squared his shoulders and tilted his chin up stubbornly. “But that’s not how we play things here. This isn’t a quid-pro-quo situation. We all pull our weight, we all watch each other’s back, and we all try not to not fuck each other over. Our aim is to do good, to help where others can’t. We don’t tally up favours, we just do what’s right. I think you already know this though.”

“That’s not how things work in the real world.”

“Then consider this fantasy-land, because to be frank I’m rich enough to not give a shit about monetary cost about anything. I care about action and reaction.” 

Clint considered this as he gently ran a hand over his bow once more. There was a lot to unpack here, and a lot to be proven on both ends. 

“Whatever,” Clint neither agreed nor disagreed. He’d take his time deciding what this massive change in his circumstances would lead to, if it worked out. 

Tony left him to it and joined the rest back in the common kitchen.

“Well,” Clint looked around the huge space, “this will be interesting.”

ccCCcc

Barton left the Tower three times the first afternoon. He came back, but there was no order to it.

The second day he locked himself in his rooms.

The third day he ventured out to join them for lunch and dinner, saying nothing and sitting separate, watching.

The watching didn’t end after the meals. They couldn’t always tell where he was, but there were times his focused stare felt almost physical. There was one night where Steve had spotted him perched on the nose of a metal eagle that stretched out from the Chrysler building. He was wearing a pair of glasses that apparently allowed him to see through the reflective glass Tony had his tower built out of so people couldn’t see inside. 

The fifth day they began training, and it didn’t take a genius to know he was holding back: not willing to let them learn his full skillset. But Tony and Phil had firsthand experience with his combat skills, and while Natasha never said anything, there was obviously a bit more to her first meeting with the kid than either were saying. They’d build trust, and hopefully he’d begin training more completely.

Then Thor came back. He was glad to meet the archer that the Lady Widow and Son of Coul spoke so highly of. He thanked Clint for his hand in helping him and the Hulk in Central Park. He insisted with friendly jest that Barton was a fine warrior, but not as fine as the noble archers of Asgard. They already knew that Barton didn’t care for having his skills questioned, but apparently when you questioned his archery abilities it brought out a dangerously competitive side of him. This ended with Barton basically infuriating Thor into inviting him to a tournament in Asgard, which Bruce accompanied them on.

Clint came back with a bow that was out of this world, literally, and Thor was absolutely delighted to declare Clint his shield brother from then on. Bruce wouldn’t tell them details on what happened, though apparently Clint had actually stolen the bow from the ceremonial display and, after ordering Hulk to throw him as high as he could in the air, shot an assassin at an impossible angle before they had been able to stab Thor's mother in the back. This was before the tournament had even begun.

Tony took great delight in dragging Clint around Stark Tower and watching him ignore everyone in favour of looking at their work. He took even more delight when Clint refused to go on Dr. Sotelo’s floor despite her continued invitations. Turns out Clint Barton was a self-taught engineer and mathematician, but the kid didn’t have a clue how advanced his understanding of their work was. Which is why, a month into convincing the kid to stick around, Tony barged into the communal kitchen to find his target grumpily eating breakfast with Sam and Natasha.

“Hey, Good Will Hunting, I have something to show you,” he beckoned, and Clint glared at him from his seat across the table from the other two. Then he went back to his eggs. “Oh come on.” Tony snapped his fingers at him and changed tactics. “I’ve got new moving target designs to test.” 

Barton pretended to think it over, but he did so while suddenly chugging the rest of his coffee before getting up and silently following Tony out of the room with his plate in hand.

“Should I alert medical?” he heard Sam call out after them and Tony did not miss the small twitch of amusement on Clint’s lips.

“This isn’t the floor to the range,” Clint said as soon as the elevator stopped.

“Of course not, this is your lab.”

“My what? Stark, I don’t need—” he trailed off as he looked into the shared lab space, and saw the back corner beside Sam’s space that had been transformed from the last time he’d visited. A large stainless-steel bench lined the wall, loaded with tools, small machinery, and design display. Along the wall separating Clint’s new space from Sam’s were storage cabinets with safety locks, shelves, and several large 3D printers, each designed to print with different materials perfect for fabricating arrows with the delicate precision Clint demanded in his work. A large stainless-steel table filled out the space across from the bench.

“You do need,” Tony declared, “since you won’t let anyone else make your arrows yet.”

“No one else will ever make my arrows,” Clint muttered as he followed Tony to the new section in the room, complete with shielded glass walls that could rise from the floor for safety and could be fogged upon request for privacy. They were also partial sound barriers for when the power tools were in use.

“Yet,” Tony tagged on, but Barton wasn’t even listening anymore as he was closely examining the space, seeing it all with a builder’s appreciation that people who didn't work with their hands just couldn’t understand. This is where the magic happened, or at least the first steps of it.

“He seems to be considering accepting the space,” Bruce said as he stepped up beside Tony and placed a cup of coffee on the table before him. Tony picked it up and took a drink.

“Hmm,” he hummed in soft agreement. He, Bruce, and Sam had decided to bring the kid around on having such a complete workspace on their communal floor before giving him a larger space of his own. They’d learned that just giving Clint things didn’t go over well, even if it was for the betterment of the team. But bringing him into an obvious communal work area would ease some of his misgivings, and hopefully drag him out of the closet-lab in his apartment. It helped that Clint seemed to work easily with Sam.

“It’s a good idea. Maybe we should open up this floor to the rest of the team.”

“Hmmm” Tony was uncommitted to the idea as the majority of them didn’t care to do too much fabrication work, but maybe they’d come by more often and see what was happening now that so many of the team worked here. Months ago, when Tony had asked Sam why the others didn’t pop by more often, he had said people mainly didn’t want to disturb them while they worked. Perhaps with another team member, one whom they were actively trying to convince should stay, they would be less shy about visiting. “Maybe we should get another couch.” He contemplated the old stained one that he and Bruce so often took naps on. People needed places to sit, after all.

Clint made a sudden happy noise that Tony had never heard from him before, and he and Bruce watched as the warrior-assassin practically bounced over to the small kitchenette and lovingly pet the eight-cup coffee machine that Tony had brought in an hour ago.

“Well,” Bruce knocked Tony’s shoulder companionably, “now we know why he’ll really stay,” and meandered off to his own area in the large room.

Tony looked at the set-up with a smug sense of pride, and lifted his mug in salute when Barton turned to give him a flat, contemplative look before starting a pot of coffee. Tony had a feeling he just might convince the guy to stick around after all.

Wouldn’t that be something.

ccCCcc

Clint hesitated outside the apartment building in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, using the excuse of checking the address to give him one more chance to retreat. Nerves tingled through his limbs, making him feel slightly jittery in ways that were just…foreign to him. He was anxious, and it probably showed.

When the second resident to leave the building since he’d been standing on the sidewalk like a dummy gave him a curious once over, he shook his head at himself. He jogged forward to catch the door before it closed all the way. He was not as smooth as he should be, and he took the stairs instead of the run-down elevator to the building’s fourth floor, hoping the effort would work out some of the unfamiliar nerves. It didn’t.

Apartment four-ten’s door looked like the rest of them in the hallway. There were worn patches in the flat industrial carpet that he poked at with his foot and he frowned. Down the hall someone opened their door and began to step out before they noticed Clint and immediately retreated back inside their home. Clint frowned deeper. He’d never lived in a place like this, but that kind of reaction didn’t seem normal, and he suspected he knew why. He’d seen some of the tracksuit guys a couple blocks over. He should probably look into it. In fact, that was a great idea. He should definitely do that. Right now was the perfect time to begin the investigation. He would set up some surveillance from the building across the way and—the door to apartment four-ten opened before he had a chance to flee. Clint froze as a wall of delicious aroma punched him right in the nose.

“Ah, you must be Clint.” A petite woman in a green dress with a thick dark braid pulled over her shoulder and ending at her waist, smiled widely at him. It was warm, genuinely inviting, and absolutely terrifying. Clint swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and he questioned his decision to come here for the hundredth time. “Anton said he thought he heard someone outside the door. I am Arbuella, Anton’s wife. Won’t you come in?”

“I—” Clint hesitated, because this was his last chance to run away and pretend this never happened. He held out the small bundle of flowers he’d bought from a store on the corner because he’d seen this done on tv and he’d wanted to get it right. Arbuella reached out with a smile that seemed even warmer and accepted the offering. Clint figured that was a good sign.

“Thank you, these are beautiful,” she said.

“You are a really good cook,” Clint blurted, and then he could feel his face warming in a completely unfamiliar way and he felt really out of his depth and—

“You are as sweet as Anton has described,” Arbuella said softly, which distracted him from his unease as he could not image Anton ever describing him as sweet. Ever. She reached out slowly, and lightly lay her hand on Clint’s elbow. “I am so pleased to be sharing a meal with you in person. Walter and his family arrived a short while ago,” she explained, which was a lie, because Clint had been outside for half an hour debating on whether or not he could follow through on accepting this insistent invitation to dinner, and they hadn’t passed him. Clint was late, like a dummy, but clearly Arbuella didn’t mind at all, and her ease and warmth began to work past his wall of nerves. “Come in and meet them.” 

She pulled gently on his arm, and Clint followed, unable to hold off any longer. The apartment was warm in a way that defied the cold city streets of New York, and in honesty, all the streets of Clint’s life. He swallowed and kicked off his shoes to join the pile by the door. He looked up sharply at the sound of running feet. A moment later he had two little girls latched onto him. He froze with his arms held carefully up and away from them as they pressed into his side, their arms wrapped around him as far as they could reach. The one with her dark frizzy hair pulled into tight pigtails on the top of her head looked up at him with bright brown eyes and a big smile.

“Daddy said I can’t marry you because I’m too little, but that if we asked nicely you might play with us.”

Clint looked up to see Walter and a woman nearly as tall as Clint standing over by the couch, wearing massive smiles on their faces. Walter had a camera pointed right at him, and it flashed brightly in the small space.

“We have crayons,” the other one said, much softer, but she had a tighter grip and Clint kind of just…melted a little inside. Maybe. It was an unfamiliar feeling. He seemed to be having a lot of those this last hour.

“After dinner, girls” the woman at Walters side said, and like that was a pre-planned signal the girls pulled away, cheered, and basically skipped to the dining table where Anton and his wife were laying dishes of food. The unfamiliar woman came to him next, and while she moved much slower than the girls, she still reached out and gently pulled Clint into a hug. A hug. Clint was terrified of putting his hands on her back, so he just kind of let them hover a little behind her. She didn’t seem to mind, just pulled him a little tighter to her. 

“Thank you,” she whispered into his ear, and pulled away with a gentle kiss to his cheek. “I am Misha, Walter’s wife,” she introduced from a safer distance.

“And better half no doubt.” Walter ginned and stepped forward to enthusiastically shake Clint’s hand in greeting, which Clint was much more accustomed to. “It is good to see you, Mr. Barton.”

“Walt, you gotta start calling me Clint. At least in private,” he sighed, the familiar banter settling him a bit.

“Indeed,” Walter did not agree, and then held his arm out to his wife. “Shall I escort you to the table, Mrs. Reed?” 

She rolled her eyes, winked at Clint, and allowed the escort.

In an odd twist of events both girls insisted on sitting beside him, and the adults in the room had no trouble keeping the conversation flowing with little demand for his input. Clint joined in once and a while, but mostly he just quietly answered questions the girls asked, and enthusiastically ate way too much food as Arbuella kept refilling his plate. After the meal, as he let the girls teach him how to colour ‘properly,’ he thought about everything that had happened this last year with Barney and SHIELD and the Avengers. He thought about his life in general, and figured that if this is where it had been leading him, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

He looked up from where he sat cross legged on the floor beside the coffee table to find Walt watching him with his familiar knowing gaze. The man smiled. “You know, I always had a good feeling about you,” he started, and the girls groaned loudly while Anton appeared and placed a mug on the table in front of Walt.

“Drink your Tea,” the doctor ordered, and Walter delightedly bent forward on the floral couch to pick it up and inhale the steam. Anton looked down where Clint had two little girls leaning into him and practically holding his hands as they told him he couldn’t just colour everything purple, even if he could colour with both hands at the same time. “You see,” he nodded at Clint and the girls, and then tilted his head at Walter. “He cheats.”

Clint laughed. 

The End. 

End notes, maybe? I didn’t want to post another chapter to ramble about the —loose ends/missing-scenes I didn’t write because they did not fit properly or I just wanted to finish the story before I decided to put it back on the proverbial shelf— so I figured I could cover some of them here! They are meant for a follow up story, but I think the likelihood of my writing a sequel for this is minuscule. If you don’t want to know my random ideas/thoughts, then ignore what’s below!

-Barney actually joined SHIELD because they offered him the best opportunities to try and find his missing brother. (He was an ass to Clint, and then he went to the army, grew up, and by the time he went back to the circus to make things right with his brother, the circus was disbanded and Clint was long gone. This made him panic and determine that he needed to find Clint to see if there was a chance they could fix things. But he was still an ass)  
-Tony and SHIELD’s top-notch doctors figure out his coma is directly resultant of the blast, and figure out how to wake him up a few months after they begin looking into it.  
-Barney wasn’t really in a ‘coma’ (more of a strange paralytic-type state), he was aware of conversations around him, which meant he was paying attention whenever Clint cursed him out and made all the secret bedside confessions he would never have admitted to anyone. Bareny may or may not be planning the future deaths of Trickshot and the Swordsman because they had promised to take care of Clint. So…he was played as well when it came to trusting people -ugh all the issues  
-Clint will eventually trust and like Coulson and make him a good/great friend, because how could he not?? He will like, but perhaps never fully trust, Natasha.  
-He gets along with Sam and Hulk like nobody expected, but all are glad for. They kind of get into all sorts of trouble, which makes Sam gleeful and Hulk engaged.  
-Dr. Sotelo only gets contact with Clint through Bruce, because Clint just doesn’t care about dealing with her, and that made her rather sad after she learned he was the one being all genius-like on her floors and perhaps people figured out to be less disregarding towards others.  
-Lea was hired to go with Barney because Tony figured out Clint liked her and she was a great nurse. She got a great shift and better pay and some day-to-day life struggles eased. And her daughter would eventually meet Clint, recognize his voice, and not tell anyone but her mom that Clint rescued her (which of course here mom had figured out somehow already). I like to think Mika turns into a future terror ninja competent FBI agent. If SHIELD doesn’t get her first.  
-There is a whole thing with the tracksuit mafia that Clint decides to deal with on his own. Then Natasha shows up and makes him feel bad for not getting help. Then he owns that lovely building in Bed-Stuy and starts to deal with his complicated feeling about her.  
-The drone that recorded Clint's fight in the junk yard was duh duh duh...not SHIELD. It could the the tracksuits, or it could be a secret soon to be nemesis (this is more likely, as the tracksuit baddies are an excellent bad-guy, but it's been done and I can't top Fraction! :D ) -Clint does engineering/science genius prodigy type stuff…but quieter than the rest of them, and maybe more sneakily…  
-Tony and Clint…I think that will go the big-brother-I-can-finally-count-on/mentor/sort-of-father-figure- way. For the win. All the winning. They will just be excellent in all things.  
-Clint still doesn’t like SHIELD.  
-this pisses Fury off.  
-Stark loves every moment of it.

lol, hats off to all the Good Will Hunting comments! 

Also, random thing to share, this story was originally entitled "Custodian Clint" until I Decided on a better name, but I still save it under its original title on my computer.

The references to dental floss in the story was because Clint appreciates good gum health...cough. (I have no affiliation with dentistry what so ever in real life)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for now. Thank you for joining me on this journey! Thank you so much for all the wonderful comments and uplifting words! They made it a joy to share this work. I wish you all the very best, all the positivity, all the hope. Until next time.
> 
> DF

**Author's Note:**

> I make a lot of things up because I don't have a clue how many operations work, so kindly just roll with it :)
> 
> As well, while I may not respond to comments (time is tight) I adore and cherish every one. 
> 
> Take care.


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